Prelude to Victory
by DirtyFox2
Summary: Lt. William Adama and the war weary crew of the Galactica struggle against the Cylons in the final stages of the First Cylon War.
1. Rook

Author Note- Obviously I own nothing of the BSG universe, I just enjoy the show like the rest of you. I know the Razor Flashbacks sort of show Operation Raptor Talon as Adama's first and laste taste of the Cylon war but I'm not happy with that. I don't think he'd become the great leader he is with just one little battle under his belt, so I decided to write up a fic that takes place in the final year and a half or so of the First Cylon war. It's an attempt at being character heavy, and character driven so you'll see original characters and perhaps some familiar cameos too. The idea is for the story to lead all the way up until Operation Raptor Talon. Hope you enjoy it. Critiques, tips, and all in between are very welcome as long as you are constructive =D. Thanks.

**Chapter 1: Rook**

**SECTOR 8424**

**1845 Hrs.**

**41 Yrs before the Fall**

With sweat beading on his forehead, the determined Viper pilot attempted to center the Cylon raider in his sights. This proved extremely difficult as the raider glided swiftly through the darkness of space. Back and forth it went; making the job all the more trying.

The perspiration upon his forehead began to drizzle down his face; getting into his eyes and obstructing his vision. The sweat stung, and he blinked repeatedly attempting to clear the stuff from his eyes. The Plexiglas of his helmet began to fog up then, and in a raspy baritone voice he cursed.

"Frak," he continued struggling to acquire his target. The two aircraft were steeped in a high angle turn and the young Viper jock was pulling almost nine Gs. He could feel the force of gravity created by his high speed turn pressing against him, forcing the blood from his head; yet with a scowl across his face he forced himself to focus.

Around the dueling pair of fighters a war raged on, as Raiders skipped across the blackness with Viper Mk. II s trailing behind them, guns blazing. Several capital ships, hulking beasts known as Battlestars, were pounding it out against similarly sized monstrosities known as Cylon Baseships. Clouds of flak fire, tracers from the hundreds of gun batteries, and the willowy contrails of rockets being fired littered the entire scene surrounding the fighters.

Nevertheless, the Viper pilot was determined to bring this bastard (affectionately labeled Toasters) down. He grimaced still, the effects of pulling so many Gs not lost on his physiology. He fired off a burst of rounds from his Viper's pair of MEC-A6 30mm Thraxon forward-firing kinetic energy weapons. Yet he hadn't led his target well enough, and the rounds gleamed far behind the Raider; itself still banking hard.

"Disengage, you're not going to hit it!" a voice chided the young pilot over the comm-channel.

"Negative, Dice, I've got this son-of-a-bitch!" a gravelly voice replied with absolute confidence.

The two ships continued their hard banking maneuver, a second Viper now trailed behind the fighter the young raspy-voiced pilot was driving. Suddenly the Raider rotated nearly 180 degrees, igniting it's own weapon systems and firing back at it's attacker. The two fighters were now rocketing toward each other head on. The Viper flying on the wing of the initial attacker broke contact and maneuvered away.

"Break off he's going to slam into you!" Dice shouted.

"I got this damn it!" the determined young rook insisted.

"The hell you do, break off!" Dice declared again.

The Viper and Raider both let fly with a stream of rounds, a burst of which crossed the Viper's starboard wing, jolting the fighter and visibly shaking the pilot within the cockpit. But with complete determination and a shot of luck the rook put two long streams of red-tracer fire directly into the Raider's cockpit. A burst of fire exploded from the center of the wing-shaped craft. The inertia from the blast sent the burning hulk tumbling off in an opposite direction before exploding in a more extravagant ball of flame.

"Hot damn! Did you get a look at that, Dice!?" the young pilot demanded with exuberance.

"Yeah, yeah, I saw it. Congratulations on your first splash, Husker," Dice responded to his wingman, a hint of pride showing in his own inflection.

"Husker, Dice, this is the CAG, get your asses back into the fight!" a commanding voice broke their celebration momentarily, reminding them they were a part of a much larger battle being fought nearby.

"Copy that, sir. Husker and Dice re-engaging!" Husker acknowledged. Without hesitation the two Vipers adjusted their course and piloted their fighters back into the center of the fray.

The rhythmic, flashy show of the immense battle taking place in a 360 degree environment around the young pilot was enough to throw any man for a loop. It was difficult to track targets in the soup of pulsating lights and explosions. Tracer fire danced across the surrounding stars, and one had to be careful not to strike another aircraft all of which seemed to dance so fluidly through the tussle they were engaged in. Nevertheless, there were collisions, and such things were inevitable. Lieutenant William Adama, call-sign Husker, found it particularly difficult to avoid smashing into fellow pilots and Raiders alike as he struggled to engage other targets.

Two Battlestars were engaging the enemy's equivalent in a massive slug fest close by. Three of the Cylon's capital ships did everything in their power to exert as much damage upon the two Colonial dreadnoughts. But these ships were new creations, and the Colonies had done an excellent job in their construction. The Galactica and the Nemesis, as they were called, fired massive barrages against the trio of Baseships, until one finally succumbed to the damage it sustained from the combined might of the two magnificent Battlestars. It lurched in it's place, fragments of it's architecture breaking off in mighty smoking chunks. Within moments explosions rippled throughout the entirety of the ship before one mighty blast from the ships center obliterated the whole of the gargantuan vessel.

Cheers and elation resounded over the communication channels, as the Viper squadrons watched the remaining Raiders retreat to the last two Baseship. At which point both capital ships escaped utilizing faster-than-light-travel (FTL). In a bright, blinding flash the ships were gone, and the victorious pilots were left steering their way through space that was cluttered with remains from destroyed fighters and the wreckage of the Cylon Baseship.

"All squadrons, this is Galactica Actual, return to base. Blue squadron you'll be refueling and re-arming and punching back out on CAP in conjunction with a squadron from the Nemesis. Good work out there, people. Galactica Actual out," the resonating tone of their Commander brought a smile to Adama's face. Commander Nash was a good man, and an outstanding leader whom the young pilot trusted and aspired to. The Lieutenant could only hope to encourage such loyalty and steadfast devotion to duty that Nash did as he progressed through his own career in the fleet.

In succession, the squadrons began to land their fighters in the dual landing pods situated on both sides of the sleek Battlestar Galactica.

"Viper Seven-Two-Four-Two, Galactica. You are cleared for hands on approach, current speed is one seven five, starboard bay, all checker's are green, call the ball," the landing signals officer's assuring voice crackled onto Husker's headset as he began to glide in on his final approach.

"This is Husker, copy that, speed one seven five, I have the ball," the young pilot had acquired the visual cue at the lip of the landing bay, and utilized it with expert precision to adjust his glideslope for a correct approach into the landing bay.

Utilizing just his maneuvering thrusters, Husker deftly piloted his Viper into one of the Galactica's magnetic landing gear locks. After which his fighter was brought down via elevator to the hangar deck.

Below, a jubilant crowd of successful fighters jocks, aircraft technicians and maintenance personnel were celebrating the defeat of the Cylon attack force that had attempted to assail the Galactica and Nemesis respectively.

Husker's Viper was towed off the elevator and into the position it normally occupied for maintenance. Adama powered down the systems and slid open the canopy on his cockpit. He stood up and removed his helmet, his trimmed hair matted down from the amounts of sweat he had exerted while flying.

"Heard you got your first kill out there, rook!" a slightly older female pilot with light skin shouted up at Adama. "Congrats."

"Thanks, Voodoo," Husker replied, as he clamored down from his cockpit to embrace his fellow pilot with a hug. Lt. Haley Shaw (Voodoo) was a part of his unit, the 1st Fighter squadron, Primus. She was attractive, and often garnered cat calls from other pilots, which she indulged to no small extent. But she was tough as nails, and never hesitated to stir up trouble if she thought it was warranted. Her brown hair matched her determined eyes and she smiled at Adama, revealing pearly white teeth.

"How'd Dice do?" she asked airily as the pair turned around, walking amidst the crowd of jeering deckhands and other celebrating pilots.

"He bagged one himself," Adama admitted with a smirk.

"Wow, that makes three, huh?" Voodoo commented, noting Dice's kill record. He would be landing shortly after Adama, and would likely exert all his oratory skills on detailing the events of the battle in whatever drunken celebration would follow this worthy victory. These skills were self professed of course, but Dice was a man that enjoyed the sound of his own voice just as much as he enjoyed gambling away all his cubits.

"More like thirty if you ask him after he's had some Ambrosia," Adama stated, mentioning Dice's propensity to exaggerate his piloting skills. Nevertheless, Dice was Adama's best friend on the Galactica, and he was glad to have him as a wingman.

"I guess we'll see. I'll catch you in the rec-room later, Husker," Voodoo replied. She gave him a carefree wave as she pounced into a group of knuckle draggers that exalted her victory with jeers, bear hugs, and mighty slaps on the back.

Adama himself was inundated with this sort of celebratory spirit as well. Dozens of crew members and deckhands congratulated him on the pilot's triumph, happy to have such valiant men and women that were skilled enough to fight off a coordinated ambush from the three Cylon Baseships.

A short time later, after all fighters had been recovered, the din was diminished greatly as Major Archibald Gates (call-sign Archie) announced over the entirety of the men and women assembled within the hangar deck:

"Listen up, debrief goes in twenty minutes. Flight leaders have your people there on time. Anyone that's late is going to be flying CAP all night instead of celebrating our little victory." He stepped down from the ladder-well he'd positioned himself upon at that point, and disappeared into the ready room, presumably to report directly to Commander Nash. This was his responsibility as the Commander, Air Group, or CAG. Gates was a seasoned Viper pilot and a man that was no stranger to success and failure. His career had originally been on a meteoric rise. He'd done a stint as a Viper instructor, test pilot, and even an honor graduate from the fleet's Top Gun academy, but a lot of that had changed midway through the war.

At this point in his career a post commanding a smaller ship would have been appropriate, or even a promotion to Colonel with a billet as an XO of a Battlestar. Yet Gates had insisted on remaining with a fighter squadron, and as such was one of the oldest Viper pilots still active. This was easily illustrated by his salt and pepper colored hair. Nevertheless he maintained himself in peak physical condition. He was strict, and fair, and earned the respect of all the pilots serving under him.

The crowd began to dissipate at that point. The deckhands and knuckle draggers began to perform the necessary tasks and maintenance that went along with post flight procedures. The fighters would be re-armed, refueled, and several would be repositioned in the launch tubes as alert fighters on ready five. The techs worked quickly and diligently, but with complete attention to detail. Each of them wished to retire to their quarters (those not on watch), yet they were dedicated enough to do their jobs with the utmost level of professionalism, despite lack of sleep or if they had been hungry.

The majority of the crew had been relaxing, sleeping, or eating in the mess hall when the Cylon Baseships jumped into the system. As a result the ship was brought to condition one, and all crew members not already at their action stations were required to get there, and stay for the duration of the battle. Once they had performed the necessary tasks for post flight they'd retire, and only those on watch would remain on the hangar deck.

After the debriefing those officers not on duty were gathering in the recreation room of the Galactica. The clamor and racket caused by the pilots was nothing short of chaotic as each man and woman was as rhapsodic as they had been right after their victory over the small Cylon flotilla.

Drinks were being passed around, a mixture of shots of Ambrosia and tankards of ale that had been poured from a keg that Commander Nash allowed to be broken out for the celebration. Each pilot happily drank from their various cups, cheering one another's exploits and reciting the battles events.

"There you are!" a particularly attractive young blonde woman announced, approaching William Adama. "I heard you got your first kill today, rook."

"I did. I guess you'll have to stop calling me rook, eh?" Adama snorted with a grin.

"Oh fat chance of that happening, hotshot," the woman replied laughing. She swilled down a half empty glass of Ambrosia. A slight grimace crossed her face as the fiery liquid made it's way down her throat.

Adama sneakily stole a few peaks at her figure. She wore a flight suit, but was stripped to the waist, and her form fitting black t-shirt did enough to entice the testosterone filled Viper jock.

She caught his glances and smiled slyly. The young woman swaggered closer and wrapped her arms around his neck, her face inching close to his ear. "You like what you see, rook?"

Adama swallowed with some difficulty. Obviously he did, but how would he proceed from here. It certainly wasn't a good idea getting mixed up with another officer, even if she was a Raptor pilot. That was fraternization after all.

"Want to see more?" she snickered, the feeling of her breathe flicked across his is ear, ramping him up further.

"McGavin, there you are!" a joyous roar broke Adama's thoughts, and the beautiful young Lieutenant who had wrapped herself around him now pulled away slightly.

"What do you want?" she asked sarcastically.

"I splashed a bandit, where's my victory kiss?" the other pilot demanded with a broad smile across his face. The young man was a Lieutenant with trimmed black hair and dark blue eyes. He was about Adama's height and as broad-chested and muscular as all the rest of the pilots aboard Galactica. He had his arms open expectantly awaiting McGavin to jump into them and deliver the aforementioned kiss.

"Dice, I'd kiss you, but I'm not a big fan of herpes," she mused. Her eyes turned back to Adama. "I'll see you later, hotshot," she remarked with a wink, patting him on the chest. She turned away and pushed past Dice, who's arms were still wide open expecting her to change her mind.

Dice shook his head ruefully, a smile still crossing his face. He sauntered over to Adama and elbowed his wingman on the arm.

"Are you hittin' that, Husker? Gods damn if you are! She's one hot piece of--"

"Enough, Dice. I'm not hitting that, and if I was you wouldn't know about it," Adama interjected. A sheepish look materialized on his visage, embarrassed by Dice's accusation.

"Hey, no need to get bent out of shape, bro. It'd be a hell of a thing if you were… I mean frak; she's hot!" Dice continued on, taking a hardy gulp of the Tauron ale which he loved ever so much.

The celebration continued. Greetings were exchanged between fellow pilots; Raptor and Viper alike. The gang continued to relate their stories, and a small group of doubtful officers surrounded Dice as he told the story of his climactic duel with six Cylon Raiders. Of course these pilots knew him well and understood he was completely full of it. But they indulged him, and they enjoyed the way he told stories; because even he didn't believe the stuff he said, but for some reason that never stopped him from telling them.

"How about it, Voodoo? Doesn't that kind of piloting make you hot?" Dice grinned at Lieutenant Shaw who casually sipped at her drink of Ambrosia. She raised a brow at the comment.

"Yeah it does, Dice. In fact, I think I'll go frak Cunningham right now," she announced. She turned away from the circle dragging Cunningham away with her.

Cunningham smiled back at Dice silently mouthing the words thank you.

"Damn, she's got to be kidding right?" Dice questioned the other surprised pilots, who merely shrugged. He shook off the failure and continued on with his impressively over-exaggerated story.

"Quiet down people, quiet down!" a voice began to speak up above the crowd of delighted aviators. "Hey, at ease!" the voice boomed. The sudden spark of a command presence was enough to quiet most of the officers assembled within the rec-room. After receiving a nudge from another, Dice quieted himself as well.

"Congratulations pilots. That was a hell of a bit of flying I saw out there today," Major Gates stood at the head of the room, a glass in hand. His squared facial features were accentuated with a happy smile, something rarely seen upon his face. "You all made me proud out there. We've also got a special announcement. One of our rooks got himself his first kill today… on his very first combat hop to boot…" silence crossed over the majority of the room as others whispered who of the new pilots managed to shoot down a Raider on their first combat flight. That was not an easy task to accomplish by any means.

"In case you're all wondering; it was Husker that scored his first kill. So congratulations to him, and to the Primus squadron for having one of hell of a new rookie to add to their ranks," Gates raised his glass in the air and his eyes searched Adama out. Finally he found the Lieutenant, and the crowd of pilots opened up allowing him to be better seen. "Here's to you, rook. Just remember, don't get cocky out there. This war is far from over. That's a message to all the rest of you, as well. We may have won today, but it was just another battle in this long, difficult war. Stay frosty, and remember what we're here for… To all our rooks, and to all our people that didn't make it back today!" Gates raised the glass higher, as did the group of officers.

"Here, here," and "So say we all," were muttered amongst the group as they drank down the toast which their CAG had made.

"All right people, enjoy the rest of this party," Major Gates finished up, and immediately after he had completed that sentence the roar he had silenced moments before came back to life with greater vim than before.

The festivities continued on for several more hours. But as the drunkenness increased, so did the fatigue, and after awhile the officers began to disperse to get some rack time. None of them could be sure when they'd be required to fend off another Cylon attack, or when some sort of tasker would be assigned, thus forcing them back into the cockpit and out on some sortie. It was best to sleep off the effects of the alcohol before such a possibility became reality.

Adama made his way down the cavernous gray halls of the Galactica alone. Dice had drunken himself into a stupor, quickly followed by unconsciousness, and several of the other pilots had dragged him back to his rack prior to the end of the celebration. Lieutenant Adama walked with confidence in his step, and a fairly decent amount of alcohol in his blood. He'd survived his first encounter with the Cylons, and though the experience had his heart racing the entire time he felt comfortable. He felt as if he could handle whatever situation he'd find himself in.

That sort of confidence in yourself and your ability was what they drilled into you at flight school. To second guess yourself, your skills, or the decisions you made would get people killed. He was always taught to never hesitate, make a decision and stick to it, because even a bad choice was better than no choice at all.

He had seen that same philosophy echo in the actions of his CAG, Major Gates. Gates had this air of daring about him, a sort of assurance that just knowing he was out there with you meant you'd be okay. He could assess the tactical situation as it presented itself, reassign Vipers to where they were most needed, exploit holes in the enemy defenses, and keep all the pilots of his wing calm with the simple cool tone in which he barked his orders over the wireless.

Adama admired and respected him for that. He could only hope to emulate the sort of calculated decision making and at-ease manner of veritable tactical genius the older pilot demonstrated. For now, however, Adama was happy to have survived. Even better he had killed one of those frakking toasters and made his mark within his squadron. He'd even been told that he was being put in for a commendation for this action, which surprised him; after all he was only doing his job.

He yawned widely as his mind wandered to the thoughts of his rack. That little bit of space that was his own and no one else's. If he'd learn one thing from flight school and all of the subsequent training he'd been a part of since then, it was that after a long hard day of work there was nothing so good as sleep.

However, his attention was drawn to the head, as he heard the door slowly creak open. He turned back to see Lieutenant Jaycie McGavin leaning against the bulkhead.

"Where're you headed, hotshot?" she asked with keen interest and a sparkling smile.

"I was actually going to get some shut-eye," Adama remarked, scratching the back of his head and stifling another urge to yawn.

"I need to talk to you about something in private," she lured, stepping back inside the head and easing the door closed, but not fully sealing it.

Adama raised a brow with interest and glanced around the hall. No one was around, it was late, and only the midnight shift-pullers would be scampering around to and fro with their necessary tasks. He was rather curious to say the least and so he pushed his way into the facility normally used for bathing, shaving, and relieving oneself.

The sultry Lieutenant was leaning against the sink, her arms behind her propping her up and she examined the sheepish rookie as he entered the room. There was, however, a brashness and degree of confidence in his gait. He was fit and trim, of course. It was a requirement of the service, and she bit her lower lip imagining what was hidden beneath his flight suit. There were only so many different ways a person could keep their sanity aboard this cramped up, oversized tin can and McGavin had her own ideas about how best to do that.

"Now you get to see more," she expressed happily, she pulled off her black undershirt revealing her bare form much to Adama's surprise. His eyes widened as they traced every curve of her body, and he quickly realized that he was very much aroused. She smiled at his apparent surprise and the noticeable reddening of his cheeks. He shook his head hesitantly, attempting to grasp the totality of the situation he found himself in.

"Wh-what's going on here, Lieutenant?" Adama struggled to ask. Deep down his sense of protocol and military bearing warned that traveling down this path was not advisable, nor acceptable. Yet there was a much stronger urge within him that easily superseded his blossoming sense of dedication to the uniform he wore and the codes of conduct he swore to uphold.

Jaycie pressed herself against him, grabbing his calloused hands and placing them on her bare hips. Her own hands reached up to grab the sides of Adama's face firmly and she looked deeply into his eyes. He attempted to dodge this at first, however he quickly gave in. Their lips locked in a deep kiss and Adama swiftly became comfortable enough with the situation to allow his hands to explore her exposed body. Her firm physique excited him, and the idea of sleep now passed rapidly from his mind.


	2. The Aged Commander

**Chapter 2: The Aged Commander**

**GALACTICA CIC**

**0700 Hrs. **

"Good morning, sir," A Marine Lance Corporal greeted with high spirits, snapping a perfect salute.

"Good morning, Lance Corporal," replied a sagely and experience-soaked voice of a much older man, who happily returned the salute.

The hatch to the CIC, or Combat Information Center, was hauled open by the Lcpl for the officer that now passed through it.

Commander Charles W. Nash, commanding officer of the Battlestar Galactica limped his way into the CIC with his usual early morning spirit. He was keenly greeted by all crewmembers and senior staff officers present.

The Commander was a man of sixty two years of age. He was stout and not particularly tall, but still maintained a powerful and domineering physical appearance as he forced himself to work as hard as any other service member in the ship's fitness center. In his younger days the Commander had participated in fleet wide weight lifting competitions, and the rumor was that he could once bench well over 300 pounds with relative ease. This may not have been the case anymore, but he was frequently seen in the gym with at least two forty five pound plates on either end of the bar. Impressive enough for a man his age.

His hair was receding at a rapid rate in the past few years, undoubtedly accelerated by the stress incurred upon him as Galactica actual. It had long since gone gray, however, but this is something he wore with pride; as if it was a badge of experience. A particularly gruesome scar crossed the right side of his face, which also happened to be pock marked by a dozen or so smaller scars. This was the result of catching a severe amount of debris from an explosion that had erupted on the CIC some two years prior. This same explosion had also left him with permanent nerve damage in his right leg, forcing him to limp and often utilize the assistance of a cane.

Initially he had spurned the use of such a crutch, but as time went on it became readily apparent that he'd be required to use it. His pride had to take a backseat to what was practical. This had of course become a common occurrence in his experiences during the war and as Commander of his fine Battlestar.

Where he began as a proud, boastful, and promising Commander at the commissioning of his ship, he had now been whittled and molded into a careful, sometimes hesitant decision maker. His brazenness had been tempered over the years by a slew of losses, as hundreds had died under his command during the ten years of fighting against the Cylons. These losses weighed heavily upon him, and in some of the most dire circumstances he has often hesitated with commands, reluctant to send more young soldiers to their end. This was something his younger self would've never permitted, yet war had ravaged his soul and worn greatly on his body and mind.

Nevertheless he commanded a mighty amount of respect from his crew and his officers.

"Good morning, ladies and gentleman," he announced with a pleased look upon his countenance as he approached the command and control station which was centrally located in the semi-round CIC, and currently surrounded by his senior staff officers.

"Morning, sir," Colonel Victor Faulk offered as the commanding officer of the Galactica arrived at the hexagonal shaped information management table.

Colonel Faulk was a stark contrast to the man he served under. Where Commander Nash was short and thickset, Faulk was tall and particularly lean. Nash had a light, almost pale complexion whereas Faulk's was dark. Nash was a weightlifter and bodybuilder, but Faulk preferred long distance running and marathons.

The XO was a relatively new addition to the crew as well. The explosion which had cost Nash the full use of his right leg had also cost the previous executive officer his life. Colonel Watson had been killed in the explosion and Faulk was his replacement.

Faulk was an engineering officer by trade, and as such he harbored a more precise manner of conducting business. He was in his early fifties and set in his disciplined ways. But he was more than willing to be a student of warfare under Nash, recognizing his extensive service record and admiring his accolades, despite Faulk's own extensive record and experiences in the war against the Cylons. The two did not always see eye to eye, particularly on crew discipline, but a friendship had begun to form after their first year together and at this point they'd grown to trust one another as any commanding pair should.

"How was the celebration last night?" Commander Nash questioned, turning his attention to the CAG, Major Gates.

"Great sir," Gates began. "The boys and girls were thankful for the ale."

"They deserved it. We've been running everyone pretty hard lately, it's good to have an opportunity to unwind for a bit, even if it's just momentary. I'm sorry I didn't make it down to congratulate you folks in person. These little fights with the enemy are draining me more and more. I was particularly tired," Commander Nash stated, then regretted the comment as it made him appear decrepit. Major Gates simply smiled at him.

He began flipping through pages relating to the ship's status, major events aboard the vessel over the midnight watch, and the progress reports on repairs being conducted on the damage caused by previous day's battle.

"What's next?" he said signing off on the last bit of paperwork that required his signature. "Ah yes, orders from the Admiralty. Our Battle group is to proceed to sector 619A and rendezvous with a group of tylium ships en-route to re-supply the main fleet over Picon. Headquarters has something big coming up and they're mustering quite a force there. As a result these ships are necessary to support the gathering armada. Ourselves and Nemesis will be jumping within the hour. Contact Commander Green on the Nemesis and alert him of the situation.

"Major Gates you can pull in the CAP in roughly forty five minutes. Once we jump into sector 619 I want another one scrambled immediately. They'll have a small flotilla of escort ships with them, lightly armed Frigates, but no fighter escorts. We'll be supplementing the protective posture they've assumed around the dozen or so tylium ships. I want long range Raptor pickets pushed out as well, I don't want to be caught with our pants down if the Cylons decide to make a play for our gas," Commander Nash briefed Gates in particular, but the information was necessary for all of those assembled. He made the decisions without so much of an afterthought, as he had received the orders from Fleet that morning and he'd already planned out how he wished to proceed.

He turned to his tactical officer, Lieutenant Alexandra Oliveira. Her short stature and happy demeanor masked an extremely competent and confident officer. She was the type of officer that could shoulder any burden, work her way through any task no matter how difficult; yet maintained some uncanny amount of humility and even self doubt at times. Nevertheless, she was one of the most trusted officers in the CIC.

"Lieutenant Oliveira, I want you to plot a jump to sector 619Alpha. Set the clock for fifty three minutes, if you please," he ordered kindly.

"Yes, sir," she responded and headed off to her post at the tactical station to plot the FTL jump and relay the coordinates to her counterpart aboard the Nemesis. Her wide azure colored eyes studied her calculations, re-checking her math again and again to allow for absolute certainty and precision. Commander Nash wanted the two Battlestars to jump into the system on opposite ends of the fleet of tylium ships and their escorts in order to provide an adequate defensive umbrella around the miniature armada. Oliveira aimed to give him that to the best extent possible.

**COMBAT AIR PATROL**

**0730 Hrs.**

"Well that was one of hell of a party last night, I don't even remember what happened," Dice reflected.

"You got shit-faced and frakking passed out; we had to carry you back to your bunk, man," Banzai put in.

"Really? Damn. Thanks Banzai, you're a real class act," Dice offered with feigned sincerity.

"It wasn't my choice, trust me," Banzai responded over the wireless.

Four Vipers from Primus squadron glided with ease across the blackness of sector 8424 on their shift for the CAP. The fighters were piloted by Lieutenants Ken Dyson (Banzai), Corvus Cortez (Dice), Adrian Cunningham (SlyPig), and William Adama (Husker).

"What happened with you and Voodoo last night, SlyPig?" Dice questioned. He'd wondered if they had in fact gone and frakked like she said they would. If that was the case then Dice certainly would've envied Cunningham.

"Nothing," Cunningham replied quickly.

"Yeah right, man. I _know_ Voodoo, and I _know_ you did something with her!" Dice shot back, his eyes scanning casually over his instrument panels.

"If you _know_ then why are you asking?" SlyPig said back grinning in his own cockpit.

"Because I want the dirty details, boy. I want you to tell me about every inch of her body, and what kind freaky shit she's into!" Dice exclaimed excitedly.

This resulted in a chuckle from his fellow pilots who simply shook their heads at Dice's apparent need to know as much about Voodoo naked and in the sack as he possibly could.

"Nah man, nothing happened. Besides, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," SlyPig told him seriously.

"Gods, you're so full of shit, Cunningham. Who cares about gentleman, none of us are gentleman. Besides, we've got nothing else to do for the next few hours out here. You might as well entertain us with tales of Voodoo's skill with a stick, haha!" Dice laughed at his simple minded joke.

"Negative, Dice," SlyPig persisted.

"Bah, you're no fun, man. If I had my way with Voodoo I'd be recounting every moment of that. Man, she's hot and I _know_ she's a freak. She's got to be!" Dice mumbled on much to the amusement of his fellow pilots. "What about you, Husker?" Dice questioned, turning his attention to his best friend.

"What do you mean, what about me?" Husker asked innocently in his gravelly voice.

"You didn't end up with ol' Lieutenant McGavin?" Dice probed as the patrol continued it's rounds near the two Battlestars.

"No. I just went to sleep after the party," Husker insisted.

"Yeah right. You're such a shitty liar, Bill," Dice pressed him, glancing over at Husker's fighter from his own position nearby in the formation they held.

"I'm serious, Dice. I didn't do anything," Husker shot back, he glanced over at Dice's plane now, sensing his friend's glare.

"Okay, why'd you have that shit-eating grin on your face this morning?" Dice continued to badger his wingman.

"Because it's a good day. I don't know… maybe because I got my first kill yesterday? That's enough to make me pretty happy," Husker offered weakly.

"Liar! That face was a 'I just got laid' face," Dice accused. "Oh my Gods, I'm flying with a pack of lying sons of bitches. You low-class scum bags don't even have the decency enough to act like low-class scum bags and dish the scoop on some of our hot ass fellow pilots! This is a travesty, a Gods damned travesty," Dice lamented over the wireless once more, shaking his head ruefully at his inability to gather any intelligence on the sexual deeds of his compatriots.

"Hey, cut the chatter, I'm getting a call from the Galactica," Banzai broke in.

"Red leader, this is the CAG. Bring the CAP back to the barn, we're jumping out of here in a few mics," Major Gates' voice broke into their wireless conversation, much to Dice's chagrin.

"You heard the word, gents. Bring it back to the Galactica," Banzai ordered coolly.

"Damn, with a little more time I could've cracked you guys. I'm going to get the information one way or another," Dice vowed.

The four Vipers returned to the Galactica and performed their usual hands-on approach, landing on the starboard landing pod of the hulking Battlestar. In short order the pods would be retracted as the ship prepared for the FTL jump.

**GALACTICA CIC**

**SECTOR 619A**

**0810 Hrs.**

**Rendezvous w/tylium Fleet**

"Good to see the big guns coming to support us, Commander," the female voice of Colonel Fiona Holloway commented over the wireless, which was set to speaker for all to hear in the CIC.

Holloway was the commander of the escort Frigate Wasp, and had overall command of the other five frigates supporting the tylium fleet. The small band of military vessels were strung out along the length and breadth of the dozen tylium transports, attempting to provide three hundred and sixty degrees of security all along the lateral and elliptical directions surrounding the small fleet.

Colonial transponders identified the six Frigates as the Wasp, Minotaur, Persephone, Perseus, Marathon, and the Maelstrom. The Colonial escort frigate was a well armed and armored fire support ship usually assigned to every Battlestar group. It was, however, dwarfed in size by the Battlestars. Despite this, they were fast, carried enough firepower to deal with a couple of Raider squadrons independently, and in great numbers they could be difficult for even a Baseship to handle.

In addition to escort duties for supply and logistical convoys, they also performed patrols, interdiction and deep space reconnaissance. They were by far the most widely produced ship type amongst the Colonial fleet and typical crew size was around six to eight hundred men and women depending on the ship. The frigates themselves housed no fighters, but did enjoy a compliment of four Raptors, allowing greater versatility when deploying their small contingent of Colonial Marines.

"What have you got for me, Colonel?" Commander Nash asked in response to Colonel Holloway's greeting.

"Not much, sir. It's been easy sailing so far. Currently, I have two of every Frigate's Raptor compliment deployed on long range picket duty. I wanted us to be prepared if any Baseships dropped in on us," the Colonel briefed him.

"My sentiments exactly. Go ahead and bring in your Raptor crews, Colonel. I'm sure they could use the rest, ours will take over for now. There will be an around the clock combat air patrol as well from both the Galactica, and the Nemesis. Get with my XO and we can work out a rotation schedule for your Raptors and our own," the Commander told her.

"Aye, aye, sir. We really appreciate the support, sir. I've been running our people ragged the last week or so," Holloway told him.

"Understood. Let's just get these ships to the fleet like we've been told," Nash replied simply.

"Copy that, sir. Wasp Actual, out," with that the wireless signal went dead, and the speaker was turned off.

**GALACTICA HANGAR DECK**

**0827 hrs.**

**Raptor Picket Launch**

The cavernous edifice that was the hangar deck could be staggering to anyone, and Lieutenant McGavin found it particularly mesmerizing every time she was within it's great hall.

All around her flight crews were prepping Raptors for launch, or performing preventative maintenance on any number of the many Vipers placed in the starboard hangar deck. There was an organized chaos to everything that transpired here. Everything was run under the careful eye of Chief Pheros, who ran a tight ship and a disciplined crew. However, to an outsider it just looked like a gaggle of blue and orange jumpsuits hurrying to and fro for no particular reason at all.

The deck was loud and it took getting used to. If it wasn't the sound of hydraulic drills, or hammers pounding kinks out of dents on all the aircraft, then it was Chief Pheros screaming at some unfortunate knuckle dragger that made a foolish mistake.

She trekked along the white deck, glancing down at the long red painted stripe that ran the length of the deck. Lieutenant Jesse Toriyama (Sparrow), McGavin's ECO, trailed behind her. "Ugh, is there anything more boring than picket duty?" the raven haired young ECO asked.

"I don't think so, but it's a necessary evil," McGavin added. The two members of Raptor Squadron 2 (the Strike Fighters) climbed up the wing of their support craft and entered the cramped interior through the port-side hydraulic hatch.

McGavin parked herself in the pilot's seat, beginning all of the necessary pre-flight functions; Toriyama was similarly busy preparing the long range sensors and electronic systems in the rear of the Raptor's cabin.

Outside the small ship crewmembers were performing last minute checks and attaching the nose of the craft to a small tow cart that would drag the Raptor to an elevator that would raise it up to the landing deck. From there the Raptor would fire up it's engines and launch; exiting from the fore-end of Galactica's landing bay per standard operating procedure.

"There's your girl, Husker," Dice mentioned, noticing McGavin through the large bubble canopy common to all Raptor's. "Why don't you go say hi?"

Husker stopped and glanced over at McGavin, watching her seamlessly perform her pre-flight routine, something she had probably done thousands of times. The door to the Raptor came down, sealing the cabin with a hiss. His three fellow Viper pilots left him standing there, his helmet tucked under his right armpit.

McGavin noticed the young William Adama's gaze. This brought a smile to her face, which she directed at him, offering a friendly wave. "Good morning, hotshot," she muttered lowly to herself.

Adama returned the wave, then shook off the minor euphoric feeling. He quickly moved off to catch up to the trio of pilots that left him behind. They'd be heading to the ready room for the always-boring post-flight debriefing.

"Hotshot?" Toriyama asked interestedly, hearing McGavin's utterance. "Don't tell me you and the rook?" she trailed off inquisitively.

"Yes ma'am. Last night after the party," McGavin reported, putting her helmet on and sealing her EVA suit.

"You've got no shame. Corrupting a poor young boy like that," Toriyama laughed, following in trace of her pilot and sealing her own EVA suit.

"Young boy? He's like a year younger than me," McGavin retorted as the Raptor was towed onto the elevator.

"Haven't you ever heard the saying 'It's not the year of the model, it's the mileage?'" Toriyama asked rhetorically with a snicker.

"What's that supposed to mean, huh?" McGavin questioned her ECOs little jab. The elevator moaned as it labored to lift the Raptor up to the landing bay. "Besides, I think little Willy Adama has gotten plenty of mileage himself."

The elevator halted and McGavin began firing up the engines and preparing the small craft for launch. Within a few moments the Raptor was prepared, she called for clearance and was given the green light from Galactica's LSO and the CIC. The Raptor lurched into the air, and with a push from it's powerful sub-light engines it rocketed away from the Galactica's landing bay and out to their pre-designated position that they'd be manning during the next eight hours of picket duty. An undoubtedly boring way to spend the day to be certain.

**COMMANDER'S QUARTERS**

**1015 Hrs.**

**Sector 619A**

"We've got picket positions established in every direction, if a Baseship jumps into this sector there's no way we won't know about," the deep voice of Colonel Faulk briefed Commander Nash in his moderately lavish quarters. Charles Nash sat behind his luxurious old teak desk. It had once belonged to an Admiral back at Fleet Headquarters, the very place they were headed, but Nash had won it in triad game. It was particularly nice and an odd thing for the Admiral to wager. However, he was desperate to win back his cubits and had noticed Commander Nash's interest in the fine craftsmanship. Confident he could win; the Admiral wagered the expensive piece of furniture, only to be distraught over it's loss to a superior card player.

"Excellent. It's going to be tedious for our people out there, but it's absolutely necessary we keep our eyes as wide open as possible. These tylium ships are vital to the fleet at Picon. I don't know what the Admiralty has planned, but it has to be pretty serious given the number of ships that have been ordered to gather there," the Commander sipped lackadaisically at a glass of water, enjoying the taste of the recycled liquid as if it were bottled from a fresh spring on Caprica itself.

"About that, sir. Colonel Holloway dispatched Raptor recon flights to neighboring sectors prior to our arrival. Reports are pretty disturbing. Seems like a significant upswing in Cylon activity," Faulk added with gravity.

"Yes, Oliveira briefed me on that," Nash replied ostensibly unconcerned.

"Then I should have several Raptor flights prep for continued reconnaissance?" Colonel Faulk questioned assumingly.

"Negative. I won't be authorizing any further recon flights. I don't want one of our planes being spotted by the Cylons and then traced back to us," the Commander explained.

Faulk narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps that's not the best idea, sir. I mean, we should have our eyes as wide open as possible, like you said. If our flights can pick up a Cylon Baseship in a nearby sector then at least we can set condition two and be more prepared if it happens to jump into this system," Faulk insisted. He wasn't too happy about the idea of not sending out recon birds. The likelihood of a Raptor being spotted by a Cylon Baseship was moderate, but for that same Baseship to then backtrack the Raptor to where it had originated from was even less likely. He assumed that Commander Nash was hesitant simply because there was still a lot the Colonials didn't know about Cylon capabilities. Commander Nash preferred to operate on the safer side of things with greater frequency lately. In most cases Faulk agreed, but this seemed like overkill to the younger staff officer. Nash was trying to mitigate a risk that Faulk didn't believe existed.

"I understand that, Colonel. I'll take your suggestions under advisement," the Commanding officer said with repose, then partaking of his water once more.

"I believe I should press the issue, sir. Let's get those flights out there so we've got better eyes and ears," Faulk urged.

"Again, I said I would take your suggestion under advisement," Commander Nash replied sternly, glaring at Faulk's insistence. "That'll be all, Colonel."

"Yes, sir," Faulk reluctantly agreed. He saluted, then exited the Commander's quarters. In his own mind, he felt as though Commander Nash was slipping further and further away from the sharp-minded warrior he'd once been. In the two years that Faulk had been aboard he'd seen enough of a noticeable difference from Nash's initial command philosophy to the way he commanded now. In addition to that he'd read and heard enough about Nash to realize he was considered one of the most lion-hearted commanders in the entire Colonial Fleet.

By all intents and purposes Commander Charles W. Nash was a hero of the Colonies, and a man that had proved himself time and time again. For all the men and women who died serving him, he'd had won many great victories thanks to his leadership. It was no coincidence that he was chosen to command the Battlestar that represented Caprica itself; after all it was the seat of politics since the unification of the Colonies and the de-facto capital.

But Faulk was beginning to see cracks in that hero's façade. A near decade of constant warfare would do that to a man, especially one that shouldered the burden of command for the entirety. So far it had not been of any major significance, and even now with this dispute over recon flights it was minor. But Colonel Faulk worried that Nash would slip further and further into his current rut, effectively blunting his once razor sharp edge and residing himself to mediocrity, or worse, incompetence.


	3. A Nasty Surprise

**Chapter 3: A Nasty Surprise**

**PILOT'S READY ROOM**

**0830 Hrs.**

**Two weeks after tylium rendezvous**

"Havoc and Grimm, the next time you two are late for a pre-flight brief I'm going to bust open your skulls myself. Got it?" Major Archibald Gates questioned the two guilty pilots in the ready room during a briefing. The two pilots nodded apologetically at their CAG who glared at them severely.

"Listen up people, I understand things have been pretty irksome lately. Flying hours upon hours of patrol with no enemy contact can be a drag. Trust me I know, I'm out there the same as you. But you all need to understand something, the enemy is out there too, and it only takes a few seconds for some frakkin' toaster to line you up in his sights and blast you into Elysium. Then it's the flag draped casket, a heartfelt ceremony, then a quick flight out of a launch tube… your last flight. How many of you want that?" Gates asked rhetorically. He allowed a moment to see if anyone would decide to interject, but none did.

"I figured as much. Stay alert out there, ladies and gentleman. Complacency kills, I know I remind you of that every day, but clearly that's the way it has to be. If you let down your guard out there and start frakkin' around like your back on the block people are going to end up dead.

Gates' eyes searched the faces of each of his assembled pilots. They all had a look of disinterest and many were bored with their current assignment. Flying CAP constantly for weeks was part of being a Viper pilot, but it was boring and led to complacency which was an absolute killer. The worst thing in the world was for a pilot to get used to the absence of the enemy, because when the enemy finally showed his nasty face that pilot would be unprepared.

The pilots hadn't exhibited any major behavioral issues, nor had any been negligent. Havoc and Grimm showing up late to a briefing was a minor infraction, but Gates knew it was important to harp on the small things to keep discipline tight, and ensure performance stayed high. Brilliance in the basics was something he'd always believed in, often to the dismay of his pilots.

Their progress to Fleet HQ over Picon had been significantly hampered by continuing maintenance issues aboard some of the tylium ships they were escorting. On three different occasions the FTL drives of different ships went on the fritz. Currently the flotilla was idly drifting through space at sub-light speed, while one ship in particular labored to fix their FTL. Attempts at such a fix had been unsuccessful so far, and they had been stuck in the same sector for over four days now.

"We're going to continue to maintain a high operational tempo. Primus squadron will be assuming the first CAP of the day with…" the Major sifted through some of his paperwork before finding what he had apparently been searching for. "Havoc, Banzai, Voodoo, and Husker. Any questions? No? Okay, then. Good hunting out there people," Gates concluded the briefing and the pilots rose from their seats and began to make their way out of the ready room.

"Oh, Lieutenant Adama, stand-bye please," Gates added.

"Uh-oh, somebody's in trouble with the boss," Dice uttered to SlyPig, nudging Husker with a friendly elbow as he left the ready room.

On their way out of the ready room the pilots couldn't help put notice a newly placed sign, concocted in a stylistic way. The board read 'Someone out there is trying to kill you; are you going to give them the chance?'. The text was written in red paint, and gave the appearance that it was dripping down as if it had been written in blood.

"I believe everyone should have a fair chance," Dice joked as they left.

"Lieutenant Adama," Gates began from behind his podium. Adama stood at ease before the seasoned Major. "I wanted to tell you to keep up the good work. You've got a lot of raw potential, and I'm seeing good things out of you out there."

"Thank you, sir," Adama responded. He wasn't altogether sure what Gates had meant. What good things? The only thing he'd done was fly boring patrol after boring patrol like everyone else. There was nothing particularly difficult, or harrowing about that.

"You performed admirably against those Baseships. A lot of rookies get out there and forget what they learned, they freeze up, and then they die," Gates said bluntly. "You didn't do that, though. You showed a lot of talent and ability… even a hint of recklessness." The CAG was clearly referring to the situation when Adama was headed straight for the oncoming Raider, effectively playing chicken with a soulless machine that doesn't fear death. He must've reviewed the gun-cameras.

"Recklessness seems to plague young pilots. I suppose it makes sense. You have to have a pretty wild spirit to climb into the cockpit of a sleek fighter only to be blasted out of a tight spaced launch tube with the help of three Voram Turbo-thrust engines. But it's also something that can get you killed pretty quick, if you make it to my age you learn that," Gates trailed off, again shuffling through some paperwork. "Just understand, there's a point where you need to draw the line, don't let emotion get the better of you out there, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir, I won't, sir," Adama replied earnestly.

Gates presented a forced smile. "I'm sure. That'll be all, Lieutenant," he told Adama, dismissing the young pilot to his Viper and another exciting stint on the combat air patrol.

Adama proceeded out of the ready room, briskly making his way across the hanger deck in order to catch up to the three pilots he'd be flying CAP with.

He could hear Chief Pheros roaring with anger at some unfortunate Specialist who had spilled coolant all over the deck. Adama was happy not to have to deal with Pheros as a subordinate. Even though the man ran one hell of a deck gang, he had a short fuse and a loud mouth, which he didn't hesitate to tongue lash his people with.

Nevertheless the coolant was being cleaned up quickly, not that it was any concern to Husker, as he jaunted up the steps and carefully sat down within the cockpit of his Viper.

"Here you go, sir," a Specialist said, offering the Lieutenant his hard-seal collar which would allow the pilot to pressurize his suit.

Adama clamped the collar around his throat with the help of the deckhand then slid the canopy closed. The ladder was pulled away and the Viper was quickly towed toward the launch tube.

Having gone over all of the necessary pre-flight inspections, Husker glanced down at his stark checklist. This quick reference card was placed upon his right thigh, and was common to all pilot's flight suits so they could conduct their checks before taking off. This allowed for a quick and easy reference, as there was no small number of tasks that had to be checked and re-checked before flight. He skimmed his finger over the checklist and read off each bullet and it's corresponding status.

_Area..........................................................Clear  
Comms......................................................Up  
Tacom/Satnav.............................................Up  
Canopy Bolts..............................................Armed  
Escape Seat...............................................Armed  
Engine Systems in the Green.......................Green  
Weapons in the Green..........Weapons set to Armed  
_

Viper 7242 was towed into one of the launch tubes on the starboard hangar deck, and after it was locked into position on the magnetic catapult the technicians quickly made their way out of the cramped little chute; the steel doors sealing behind them.

Again Adama went over the third and final phase of his checklist; this listed under Launch Tube Checks. The Landing Signals Officer, Captain Henry Ariston, watched on with his usual bland demeanor.

_Area............................................................Clear  
Blast Doors..................................................Open  
Heads Up Display.........................................On  
Tac/Nav........................................................To Active  
Flaps...........................................................15 degrees down angle  
Engines........................................................85%  
Assume Launch Position................................Okay  
LSO Launch Signal........................................Okay  
Master Caution Cold Shot Warning..................Set_

Adama looked over at the LSO, safe behind his blast resistant glass in the LSO's launch control room. He signaled Captain Ariston with a thumbs up.

"Viper 7242 is ready for launch," He muttered in his rusty tone.

"Copy that Viper 7242... Husker, you are cleared for launch, good hunting, Lieutenant. LSO, out," with that said the wireless traffic went mute.

A moment of silence followed, and a calm fell over the young pilot as he anticipated the catapult's activation. Suddenly his fighter shot forward, propelled by the powerful magnet that would hurl his Viper out into space.

He could feel the frame of his fighter shaking and with his peripherals he noted the intense speed with which he was vaulted through the length of the tube. Within just a few short seconds his plane emerged from starboard launch tube number three. With a quick tap to his throttle and a few adjustments with his RCS thrusters he maneuvered himself into position within the formation that would be flying CAP for the next six hours.

"Nice of you to join us, Husker," Banzai crackled over the wireless. Husker was quiet on the other end and the flight of four Vipers began their lengthy patrol flying down the span of the outstretched convoy as it lumbered along at sub-light speed.

Miles away from the procession of tylium ships a Raptor drifted idly. Chomper leaned back to speak to his ECO after hearing her suddenly start stirring. "What have you got, Calypso?" he asked, yawning. The pair were coming to the end of their long shift and he was more than ready to return to the Galactica for some shut-eye.

"I don't know, hold on," the electronic countermeasures officer believed she spotted a DRADIS contact, but the blip on her screen had vanished almost immediately after she had seen it. She wondered if it was just her; being tired and stuck in this cramped Raptor cabin might be creating things in her imagination.

"Frak, I've got a positive DRADIS contact, one ship… a Raider bearing 719er carom 882," Calypso relayed to her pilot.

"Copy that. Galactica this is Raptor 977, I've got a single DRADIS contact at 719er carom 882, do you copy?" Chomper calmly reported over the wireless.

"Copy that Raptor 977. All Raptors, this is Galactica, RTB, I repeat, all Raptors RTB immediately… Sir, a picket Raptor just detected a single enemy Raider," Petty Officer Cameron relayed to Commander Nash.

Nash looked to his tactical officer. "Lieutenant Oliveira, can you confirm that?" he asked.

Oliveira quickly made a few adjustments on her DRADIS monitor then turned her attention back to the Commander. "Yes, sir. One Raider bearing 719er carom 882, it's turning away from the fleet, though, sir," she told him, tracking the movement of the small blip on the DRADIS screen.

The command staff looked up at the DRADIS console which now lowered from a cylindrical tube suspended over the command and control station. It displayed the same screen Oliveira had been looking at.

"Dispatch the CAP to intercept and launch the alert fighters," Commander Nash ordered.

"Roger that, sir," Oliveira complied, repeating the orders over the wireless.

"Probably a scout," Colonel Faulk stated. It was the usual tactic. The Cylons punched out their Raiders all over the place, much in the same manner that the Colonials utilized Raptors. This allowed them to locate the enemy and either engage them or avoid them.

"We'll see if the CAP can get him before he jumps away," Nash put in.

"This is Banzai, I've got a tally-ho on the target but he's moving fast," Lieutenant Dyson announced as the four Viper formation began tracing the Raider as it fled away from the fleet. "Frak, he jumped away!"

In a quick and bright flash the Raider disappeared from the sector, it had jumped to some unknown location. The question now was whether it would return with the fleet it had come from, or would it simply report back to it's command structure and its Baseship would avoid contact with the small flotilla of ships.

"Set condition one throughout the ship," Commander Nash ordered. "Stand-bye for possible engagement with an enemy fleet…" he gripped his cane tightly, his eyes glued to the DRADIS console, searching for the blips that would alert the CIC to the presence of a Cylon fleet.

"Attention, attention, this is the XO, set condition one throughout the ship. This is not a drill. I say again, set condition one throughout the ship," the XO ordered over the public announcement system wired throughout the Galactica.

Several precarious moments passed before Oliveira turned to inform the Commander that condition one had been set and that all stations reported ready for contact. A moment later she also relayed the same report from the Battlestar Nemesis.

Tension gripped the command staff and crew of the Galactica as they watched the DRADIS screen mounted in the center of the CIC, waiting for contact. Part of them hoping it would not come, and another part wishing they would. Let them show themselves, and let the Galactica, her crew, and her pilots send another Cylon fleet running. Anything they could do to wreak some damage on the Cylons and destroy any toasters in a hail of gunfire.

But contact also meant casualties; this was the price of their decade long war. It had cost them all so much, and indeed the majority of the crew that manned the Galactica this day were not aboard when she was christened. In fact, Commander Nash and perhaps a handful of other service members were all that was left of that original crew. The rest having been killed, wounded, or mustered out of the service after achieving their lengthy term of enlistment and opting not to volunteer once more, despite the current situation in the war against the Cylons.

Only the nerve racking sound of the DRADIS echoed throughout the CIC as it scanned across the surrounding space beyond the confines of the ship. Sweeping for contacts in a 360 degree sphere surrounding the small convoy. Red alert lights blinked on and on, and the crew's eyes remained glued to the center console.

"DRADIS contact, sir!" Oliveira announced, her view at the tactical station showed it before it was relayed to the main DRADIS console above the command and control station seconds later. "Two Cylon Baseships bearing 538, carom 420."

Suddenly the two blips appeared on the DRADIS screen. The crew within the CIC didn't wait for orders, instead immediately performing the necessary tasks in preparation for the onslaught that was only a few moments away.

"They're launching raiders," Oliveira shouted, noting several wings of Cylon raiders pouring from the Baseships and littering her screen with small contacts that were headed directly for the CAP. The Alert fighters had launched, but were far behind the CAP.

"Launch all fighters, pass that order to the Nemesis as well. Tell the tylium ships to get as far from the Baseships as possible and have two of the six escort Frigates protect the ships that are being repaired. The rest are to stay with the remainder of the tylium fleet," Nash quickly ordered, leaning on his cane with nearly all of his weight.

Oliveira nodded and began to circulate Nash's orders to Commander Green of the Nemesis and the respective Colonels at the helm of each Frigate. The tylium ships began to break off from their forward route, turning away and heading as far away from the battle that was about to take place as they could.

"Gods, there's a shit ton of them," Havoc observed into the wireless, as the four Viper pilots noticed the cloud of Raiders heading toward them.

"All right listen up, weapons free. Engage these bastards and stay frosty. Stick with your wingman and shake off any bandits that try and get a bead on you. Keep each other's sixes clear and we hold until the cavalry arrives. Let's show these frakkin' toasters why it's a bad idea to frak with Primus!" Banzai commanded, his voice carrying some confidence over the wireless, and re-assuring the others.

Husker focused on the waves of Cylon Raiders. Flashes of a possible explosive demise ran before his eyes, but he was undeterred and he gripped his flight stick tightly. All four Vipers courageously increased their throttles and sped forward toward the mass of Raiders. He went hot on his kinetic energy weapons and let fly with dual streams of heavy red-tracer fire which streaked across the Raider's formation as they broke their tight group and evaded the four human piloted fighters that blazed away with their guns.

Several Raiders were struck and exploded, but there was no time to celebrate those downed enemies; they were surrounded in a complete cloud of the merciless machines.

"Helm, bring the ship about twenty seven degrees, rear starboard thrusters at ten percent," Commander Nash insisted. The helmsman complied and began the necessary maneuver that would bring the Galactica perpendicular to the harrowing dogfight that was taking place not far away.

"Weapons, I want all batteries to get firing solutions on those flights of Raiders. Nothing gets past us, nothing endangers the tylium ships," he continued delegating commands.

Outside the Galactica gun batteries began to turn in place, preparing to engage hostile targets as they did what they could to penetrate the protective shield the Galactica would now provide in an attempt to safeguard the precious tylium ships.

A wave of numerous Raiders had passed beyond the four fighters of the CAP and now whirled passed even the alert fighters, which engaged them with everything they had, sparking orange balls of flame and sending shrapnel and debris hurling through the vacuum of space.

"Whoo! Nice shooting, Dice!" SlyPig congratulated Lieutenant Cortez as he obliterated a Cylon Raider as it attempted to maneuver away from the flight of alert fighters.

"Signal the gun captains to open fire," Commander Nash ordered. The lead officer within the weapons control room nodded and ordered all gun captains to do just that.

The turrets immediately began unleashing their deadly barrage of fire, their guns firing a devastating salvo of flak which exploded in violent puffs in a 160 degree arc on the port side of the Galactica, forcing the Raiders to break off their initial push. Dozens of them catching fire and exploding, or being torn a part by the shrapnel that was spewed from each burst of flak.

The Nemesis also brought it's guns to bear, allowing it's starboard battery to engage the wings of Raiders with flak ammunition, while on the port side it's batteries engaged the Baseships with heavy rounds and concentrated salvos of high explosive shells.

Plumes of smoke and flame erupted from one of the Baseships as the shells from the Nemesis crashed into it's hull. But both Baseships were not without their own weapons, and fired barrage after barrage of anti-ship missiles back, engaging both Battlestars.

Spirals of exhaust from the hundreds of rockets created a criss-cross pattern all across the surrounding space, as Vipers and Raiders alike ducked in and out of the long strains of smoke and avoided the missiles when necessary.

Husker and the members of his combat air patrol had now been joined by the entire compliment of fighters from both the Nemesis and the Galactica and they were engaged in a fierce dogfight with the apparent ceaseless waves of Raiders that poured from the Baseships.

Utilizing his RCS thrusters he was able to whirl around 180 degrees and fire upon a Raider that had been attempting to shoot him down, his burst of rounds missed the Raider, however, and it banked off to the left away from him.

He gave chase, pushing on the throttle of his Viper and igniting the blue glow of his powerful engines. Now he had the Raider directly to his front and he opened fire. It evaded another blast, and he cursed under his breath. All around him ships exploded into flaming wreckage, bursts of red and blue tracer fire streaked across his canopy and the smoky swirls of missile contrails engulfed the entirety of his fighter's frame. But he had no intention of letting this Raider go.

Again he fired, but it performed a simple aileron roll, rotating it's body 360 degrees on it's longitudinal axis and avoiding the heavy streak of gunfire. It rolled several times, then broke it's forward movement, fired up it's RCS thrusters and shot below Husker.

The young Lieutenant fired his own RCS thrusters halting his ship's forward movement, then utilizing the thrusters located on the nose and dorsal portion of his ship he flipped his fighter so the nose was pointed downward and he brought the small craft around 180 degrees, then ignited his main engines once more and gave pursuit of the Raider. The entire maneuver took only a second or two to complete, but the heavy Gs knocked Adama around within his cockpit.

He shook off the effects and again re-acquired his target. "C'mon you frakking toaster," he swore again. His finger clenched the trigger of his flight stick and the red hue of the dual mounted kinetic energy weapons reflected across his canopy as he fired.

At last the heavy slugs tore into their target, ripping apart the port side of the giant flying 'wing'. The Raider lost control and spun off into space unable to correct itself. Smoke poured from it's damaged portion. Husker reassumed a good firing position behind the spiraling Cylon fighter. He opened up once again and this time with great ease his rounds shredded the remainder of the fighter, until it burst into a fiery ball. He banked hard and turned to re-enter the main fight and attempt to locate his wingman.

Aboard the Galactica the crew was rocked by several major impacts from a volley of anti-ship missiles from the Baseships. Commander Nash stumbled forward, dropping his cane upon the deck. He was forced to hold himself up by using the information management table as a crutch. Again the CIC was jolted by another series of blasts along the dorsal hull of the Battlestar.

"Damage report!" Nash managed to demand, kneeling down and struggling to grab hold of his cane. He gripped it tightly, his knuckles whitening.

"We have fires on deck one and two, and possible hull breach in frame fourteen," Colonel Faulk informed him. "I've got damage control teams already en-route to deal with the fires, but we may have to seal off frame fourteen."

"I want a DC team in there to confirm if there is in fact a hull breach and evacuate anyone still alive, then seal the frame," Commander Nash ordered.

Faulk nodded, got onto the handset and immediately made the announcement, relaying the orders. It was unlikely that anyone would've survived the hull breach if it had in fact occurred. But Nash never liked the idea of simply sealing off a frame on the basis that sensors showed a breach, often enough there were kinks in the Galactica's damage control systems that often showed problems that did not exist. They called them system ghosts because they disappeared as suddenly as they appeared.

"Sir, I have an additional enemy contact bearing 272, carom 961," Oliveira reported in a lively tone. "It's another Baseship!"

Nash looked up at the DRADIS screen and noticed the contact had jumped into the system very close to the tylium ships that were virtually undefended. He cursed inwardly, a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his scarred face and he blinked excessively, thinking as fast as he could.

"Position us to fire upon the nearest Baseship, have Commander Green do the same. I want concentrated salvo fire on that ship. Let's see if we can bring it down then we can move to engage that new Baseship while the Nemesis deals with our remaining friend here," Nash announced. Helm understood the orders and began firing the required thrusters to position the ship in the best place possible for a concentrated barrage of salvo fire in unison with the Battlestar Nemesis.

"Sir, the Wasp, Minotaur, Persephone, Perseus, Marathon, and the Maelstrom are all moving to engage the Baseship," Oliveira told him, a hint of panic in her voice. She knew the frigates would have a terrible time of handling the Cylon capital ship, even with their numerical advantage. An escort frigate was roughly a quarter the size of a Battlestar, and simply couldn't stand up to the heavier ships unless they held a significant advantage in numbers. The young Lieutenant fully expected heavy losses.

"They won't last long, Commander," Faulk insisted, looking gravely at Nash who was becoming increasingly addled by the new development.

"Baseship is launching Raiders, the frigates have engaged them," Oliveira added.

"This is the best way… let's bring down this frakking Baseship and then we high tail it to assist Colonel Holloway," Nash asserted.

The dual cannons of the Battlestar's 24 gun-batteries began firing their heavy, lead-laden barrage of salvo fire upon the nearest Baseship. Massive explosions erupted from the entirety of the Baseship, but it was soaking up the punishment admirably, and continued to rain it's own compliment of missiles back at the Galactica.

More blasts shocked the crew within the hulking Battlestar, but all the while it's gun batteries fired away. Meanwhile, it's point defense turrets engaged dozens of Cylon Raiders and all around the Galactica bursts of flak and Raiders being incinerated within the Galactica's firing solution could be seen.

"Sir! The Perseus is gone!" Oliveira cried out. The small DRADIS marker showing the small frigate soon disappeared from the monitor. "Colonel Holloway reports severe damage to the majority of her ships."

"We've got to do something, Charlie," Faulk affirmed, his dark eyes pleading with the Commander.

"Dispatch two Viper squadrons to assist Holloway," Nash responded. He swallowed hard, clenching his teeth from the immense tension.

"One tylium ship destroyed," Oliveira added, having calmed herself in order to best perform her duties. "Dispatching Primus squadron and the High-Rollers from Nemesis," Oliveira continued.

"All fighters of blue squadron, this is Achilles, Primus has been re-assigned to assist the frigates in their fight against the new Baseship. Disengage, form up on me and move your asses," Captain Alexander Hilarion commanded. It took several minutes for most of the fighters remaining from Primus to shake off their bandits or destroy the ones they were engaged with before they were able to rendezvous with their squadron leader, Achilles.

As soon as the fighters were assembled they rocketed off towards the desperate fight against the newly arrived Baseship. They didn't bother waiting for the High-Rollers, the other squadron that would be helping from the Nemesis. Achilles knew the frigates needed them desperately, and the High-Rollers were still assembling their Vipers.

Primus was the top squadron on all of Galactica, and as such, they could add a significant force multiplier to the fight against the new Baseship and the wings of Raiders it dispatched.

"All right people, we've got at least two wings of Raiders flying cover for that Baseship. I want you to focus your energy on the fighters, leave the Baseship to the frigates, but keep the fighters off of them. We swat those nasty flies down so the frigates can concentrate on the Baseship, got it?" Achilles calmly briefed his squadron as they continued their speedy advance toward the fray.

Husker listened as the various squadron members voiced their acknowledgement. He did the same when it was his turn, then focused on the fight ahead. In the distance he could see the tracers, the small detonations, even the contrails from the Baseships missiles became more apparent as Primus rapidly approached the fight.

"Weapons free, time to earn your pay," Achilles added. The formation broke up as it slammed into the wave of Raiders that circled like small sharks around the wounded frigates which tried desperately to fight them off.

_"I've got one!" _

_"Break right, Havoc!" _

_"I can't get a bead on him, he's-- he's too fast!" _

_"You're too close!"_

_"I'm hit, I'm--" _

Commander Nash listened to the chatter of his pilots as they fought off the massive hordes of Raiders. He knew this battle was going to lead to many casualties, and he wondered if his heart would be able to sustain anymore military funerals and services. This war had wrought such a terrible toll upon him, and even he was beginning to doubt his ability to carry on.

"Sir!" Oliveira's voice brought him back to the CIC. He blinked and looked over at her, perplexed. "Baseship destroyed!" she told him excitedly. The concentrated fire from both the Nemesis and the Galactica proved to be too much for the Cylon ship, and it was now a fiery, hulking mess of twisted burning metal.

He looked at her momentarily, lost in the emotion that swept over him.

"What are your orders, sir?" Faulk asked impatiently.

"Bring the ship about," he began, shaking off the euphoric feeling of another destroyed Capital ship. "All ahead full. Helm, get us in the fight against that damn ship trying to destroy our tylium."

"Yes, sir!" the helmsman replied jauntily.

Meanwhile the Nemesis began plugging rounds into the remaining Baseship, itself turning it's attention to the Nemesis. The two would go into a slugging match against one another, which would unfortunately lead to significant damage for the Nemesis. But Nash ordered all of Galactica's fighters to stay on station and assist the Nemesis. The idea was that with the help of two squadrons and five frigates he'd be able to handle the other Baseship.

A dance of pilots and machines was taking place back amongst the tylium ships. Colonel Holloway had attempted to keep the Baseship from destroying more ships, but the Raiders were running amok within their convoy. Another tylium ship was lost, and the Maelstrom was now floating, powerless wreckage. It had taken so much damage that it was now effectively out of the fight. Colonel Holloway watched on her DRADIS monitor as the Raiders flooded over the Maelstrom, intent to see it obliterated. But at last the High-Rollers had arrived and began engaging the Raiders, using all their skill to stave off the destruction of the Maelstrom.

"This is Captain Hicks, sorry we're late," he reported, as his flight of Vipers caused the tight Raider formation to scatter.

"It's good to have you here," Colonel Holloway said back calmly.

"Sir, the Galactica and Nemesis have destroyed a Baseship. The Galactica is en-route to our position, ETA eight minutes," Holloway's tactical officer told her just as their CIC was rocked by another massive explosion outside of the Wasp. Sparks flew, and a small fire ignited near their communications station. It was quickly put out by the crew.

"Good… let's hope we can last that long," she muttered to herself.

"Good shooting, Husker," Voodoo keyed into her microphone as she rocketed through the debris of a Raider that Adama had destroyed. She pulled hard on the Viper's flight stick, her RCS thrusters contributing to a roll which she used to position herself behind a Raider. A quick and accurate burst from her weapons sent the Raider into whatever afterlife the toaster's believed in.

Primus squadron was racking up kills against the Raiders, but not without taking their own casualties. The fight was extremely difficult, and each pilot was growing tired despite the adrenaline that coursed heavily throughout their bloodstream.

_"Frak! Saber tooth is dead, they got him!" _

_"Stay alert, Gods damn it!"_

_"Galactica is coming!"_

_"They got that frakking Baseship."_

_"Oh my Gods, he's got me--"_

_"Banzai, where's Flash?" _

_"Dead. She's dead."_

_"Frak!"_

_"Concentrate your fire on that one there! There he is, right there!"_

_"Got him hold on."_

_"There. Keep firing!_

_"Got him! I got him!"_

The wireless chatter continued at an amazing rate and Husker had trouble listening to all the reports that were coming in. He blinked repeatedly, attempting to clear the sweat from his eyes. His muscles felt weak as fatigue crept up on him, and even his bird seemed less responsive.

"Husker, Husker, you've got two Raiders on your six!" Voodoo alerted him.

He attempted to check behind him, but could not see either. Suddenly several streaks of blue tracer fire raced beyond his canopy and he was forced to pitch and roll to avoid additional incoming fire. It wasn't enough, and a fusillade of gunfire struck his starboard engine. His Viper shook violently and he lost control momentarily. He struggled to keep the Viper flying straight.

"My starboard engine is on fire," he reported in his usual hoarse tone, maintaining a calm demeanor.

Voodoo and SlyPig quickly moved to his aide; chasing off one of the Raiders and hastily destroying it. The other fired another few rounds into Husker's fighter. The bullets rattled through the airframe, and the canopy cracked. Alarms sounded within his cockpit and his RCS thrusters began firing randomly, sending his fighter into an awkward flat spin. He went careening away from the fight, just as Dice engaged and destroyed the Raider that had cause him the damage.

"Eject, Husker. You've got some serious fire kicking up on your Vorams," Dice told him, noting the fire that ignited within Husker's three Voram engines.

"Copy." Husker reached down and yanked the yellow and black striped handle. The explosive bolts on his canopy fired away, discarding the fiberglass. Then the thrusters in his seat ignited and he was propelled from his spinning fighter. It shot him clear of the Viper and he watched as it continued to spin.

"Krypter! Krypter! Krypter! This is Viper 7242 requiring assistance, over," The Lieutenant himself now floated quietly through the deafening silence of space, despite the massive battle going on around him. He'd hoped the fight would end soon, that he'd be rescued, and that no one would kill him until then; accidentally or otherwise.

"Utilize our main batteries. Target the Baseship. It's a long-shot, but we're taking too long, we need to get into the fight," Colonel Faulk charged the weapons control officer. The weapons officer complied and immediately began to calculate a firing solution that would allow the main batteries of the Galactica to fire long distance salvos at the Baseship, adding the Galactica's considerable firepower to the fight.

The main batteries were located on the nose of the ship, also known as the head or stem. They were used entirely for the offensive, allowing the Battlestar to approach a target and fire heavy barrages from these cannons, while presenting the smallest possible silhouette to the enemy.

Several moments later immense beams of orange-white light fired from the head of the ship and careened through space. The shots raced by the dueling fighters and careened into the Baseship, igniting large fireballs along it's hull.

"Direct hit, sir," the weapons officer reported.

"Good shooting. Keep it up," Nash said back.

More shots from the Galactica were fired, and the heavy laden shells crashed into the Baseship with equal effect. Suddenly the Raiders turned back and began to retreat toward their Baseship. Each Viper took advantage of this; attempting all they could to obliterate as many Raiders as possible while they retreated.

Once the Raiders were recovered the Baseship, still being bombarded by Galactica's long range firing, disappeared in a flash, living only floating debris in it's wake.

Likewise the other Baseship turned to escape, albeit, far more heavily damaged then it's late-arriving counterpart. The Nemesis had caused it major damage, and the half the ship was in flames as it jumped away utilizing it's FTL. Naturally, the Nemesis had also sustained heavy damage, and her control teams raced throughout the ship to stem the fires that were burning within.

"Both Baseships are gone, sir," Lieutenant Oliveira told her commanding officer, her voice heavy with relief.

"Good, have our fighters mop up whatever Raiders didn't escape. Launch our SAR birds and bring my wounded pilots home. I want the tanker out there too, refuel the fighters and have the CAG maintain an all-hands CAP while recovery operations are being conducted," Nash exhaled deeply. He finally relaxed his grip on his cane. His palm was sweaty, and he felt a great deal of respite. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, sore from looking up at the DRADIS console for the entirety of the engagements. "Colonel Faulk, a detailed damage report if you will."

"Yes, sir," Faulk nodded. "Congratulations, sir," he offered with a weak smile.

Commander Nash simply nodded. It was another victory in a long string of battles that he had either won or lost. The outcome may have changed from time to time, but what was always a constant were the dead men and women that had bravely fought and died for the twelve Colonies.

**RAPTOR 117**

**1042 hrs.**

**Search and Rescue Operations**

"Well, well, well, looks like we finally found you, Hotshot," Lieutenant McGavin stated as the cabin of her Raptor depressurized, and the exhausted Viper pilot dropped to the deck.

"Pressure's good," Toriyama told him.

Husker pulled off his helmet with a degree of difficult. "Water," he said simply, sweat streaking his tan complexion.

Toriyama handed him a bottle which he proceeded to drink with as much haste as he could muster from his tired muscles.

"So, on your first ever combat hop you destroy a Cylon fighter, but on your second hop the Cylon destroys _your_ fighter. Pretty nice record, Husker," McGavin commented jokingly. She glanced back at Adama, happy to see him alive despite scathing words.

"Well…" Adama began, wiping away the sweat from his brow and sipping the water once more. "I managed to bag four of them before they got me. So I'm still ahead," he remarked.

"You'll be happy to know that your Viper survived the beating you put it through. One of our Raptors towed it back to Galactica. Chief Pheros will probably put it to rights, but he's going to make you hear about it first," Toriyama told him as she hoisted herself back into her position at the ECO station.

Lieutenant Adama simply exhaled, then wearily let his head back to rest against the bulkhead of the Raptor. He closed his eyes and relaxed, glad to have survived another fierce fight against the Cylons. He wondered what the final tally count was for their own dead and wounded. He'd seen plenty of Vipers get hit out there, and he doubted that many had been lucky enough to eject like him.

Later, he was happy to see his Viper amongst the others on the hangar deck of the Galactica. He gazed at it with a sense of guilt mixed with joy. It was almost like a living thing to him, and he had made it suffer. He pressed an ungloved hand against the nose of the bullet-ridden fighter. An apologetic look crossed his face, as if to say sorry for his shortcomings and the pain he'd caused Viper 7242.

"You certainly busted her up," a gruff voice broke his reverent moment. He glanced over to see a heavy-set figure. It was Chief Pheros. A man with the face of a bulldog and the arms of a gorilla. He was shorter then Husker, almost comically so, yet his grim face and fierce temper kept even the most senior of officers from laughing. "It's going to take all night to fix her."

"Sorry, Chief. If there's anything I can do to help…" Adama offered.

"You'll just frak things up. You damn fighter jocks aren't good for much 'sides loadin' ammo," Chief Pheros grunted, running his hand through his receding, greasy brown hair. The Chief was a man that knew nothing of subtlety, and he certainly didn't care for military bearing or being respectful to junior officers. He'd been aboard Galactica since it was christened. Started there as a lowly deckhand, and he worked his way up from there. He knew no matter how nasty he was to a young rookie pilot, or even the more seasoned Lieutenants, he was untouchable.

"If you say so, Chief," Adama replied, uninterested in the Chief's brash attempts to lord himself over him.

"I do say so. And another thing, next time you bang one of my ships up like this, maybe you'll have the good sense to miss the SAR bird," Pheros beady brown eyes peered at Husker, irritation fluttering in them.

Adama shook off the comment. "Have a good day, Chief," he said. He pushed pass the short grease-ball of a Chief and headed to the pilot's ready room to receive the debrief the CAG would be giving.

"Sir," Phero's voice stopped him in his tracks and he glanced back to see the maintenance boss wiping his hands with a dirty rag. "Glad you made it back."

Adama nodded. "Thanks."


	4. Idle Time

**Chapter Four: Idle Time**

**COMMANDER'S QUARTERS**

**1120 hrs.**

**Two Days After Arrival at Picon**

"With the help of the fleet's maintenance personnel we should be able to fully repair the external damage done to the hull within a few days. Internally some of the wiring which allows remote door sealing is shot, the PA system can't be heard from frame thirty all the way aft to the stern, we have repeated coolant leaks from the starboard sub-light engine, hydraulic failure on two elevators in the port hangar deck, and electrical short-outs on decks six and eight, and the toilets are backed up in the aft enlisted head," Colonel Faulk finished. He had been reading the maintenance reports filed by the Galactica's crew since they'd reached fleet headquarters over Picon.

Commander Nash sat rubbing some of his grayed chest hair that protruded from the black skivvy shirt he wore below his service blues uniform. "The doldrums of port life," he commented, sipping idly from a glass of vintage whiskey. He enjoyed the hickory-like flavor of the expensive liquor.

"Yes, sir. I think the crew is getting restless as well," Faulk told him, although seemed unconcerned. "Perhaps we should increase training. Medical classes for the crew, training flights for the pilots, and sixty second drills for the CIC staff? Snipes should be busy enough with maintenance I should think."

"No." Nash coughed abruptly, setting down his tumbler, his glass now empty. "Let's start authorizing some liberty passes planet-side. Fleet has something serious coming, I want our people to have the chance to enjoy themselves before whatever it is becomes apparent. Forty eight hours should do. Get with Lt. Oliveira and draft up a rotation cycle, if you would, Colonel."

"Yes, sir," Faulk jotted down the notes in a small green notebook he carried with him.

"And Colonel, I'd like you to be among the first to get down there," Nash told him. His soft eyes looking across his desk at his executive officer. He thought Faulk to be too high strung, and in need of some relaxation, though he wondered if the officer was capable of relaxing.

"But sir," Faulk began, but Nash silenced the protest with an open hand.

"Colonel, I need my officers trim and at the top of their game for whatever the fleet has coming. That means you need to get some downtime and maybe a little perspective too," Nash insisted.

"Perspective?" the XO asked slightly bemused.

"When's the last time you had liberty?" Nash asked, already knowing the answer.

"Not since I reported to the Galactica, sir," Colonel Faulk replied. He didn't find that fact odd, it wasn't uncommon for leave or liberty to be forgotten about by the officers of the fleet. They were at war after all.

Commander Nash nodded expectantly. "It's time you go remind yourself what it is we're all fighting and dying for out there." The Commander sifted through all of the service request forms, initialing it all and silently cursing the paperwork that plagued a commanding billet.

"Yes, sir," Faulk allowed, scratching his nose and adjusting his uniform. He wasn't altogether certain how he'd spend his liberty. He hadn't been around civilians in over two years and he was grateful for it. He preferred the discipline of a trained Colonial crew. Among the military he enjoyed customs and courtesies. One couldn't expect to be greeted with a good morning or good evening while trolling the streets of a liberty port. But the crew always made it a point to greet him, and he did the same in return.

Clearly there was no choice in the matter. Perhaps Commander Nash had a point, though. Faulk's life was the military, and he knew nothing else besides the crisp ironed creases of his uniform, and the spit-shined reflection of his black leather boots. Maybe he could unwind, maybe even enjoy a drink or two. There'd be no harm in indulging then.

**OFFICER'S QUARTERS**

**1140 Hrs.**

"Oh my Gods, that was outstanding," Lt. Haley Shaw beamed as her nude form rolled off the top of fellow pilot Lieutenant Adrian Cunningham. "You really know what you're doing."

"Thanks," Cunningham replied awkwardly. He watched as Shaw's lithesome naked figure rose from his rack and proceeded to dress herself in the empty crew quarters. She seemed to dress in a hurry, intent on not being caught by any of their fellow pilots that may return at any moment.

"So I was wondering…" Cunningham began, not bothering to rise from his position on the bunk.

"Yeah?" Shaw responded, not liking the ominous tone of her comrade's voice.

"Well I'm wondering about all this, like what we have," he continued.

"What's to wonder about?" she asked, pulling her shirt on and turning to face Cunningham, a stern and suspicious look upon her face.

"Just… where we're going," he stated, sitting up from his rack.

"We're not going anywhere," she said with a grin, hoping to look as though she thought what he was trying to say was a joke.

"Look, Haley, I know this started as fun but--" Cunningham was cut off as he spoke.

"But nothing, Cunningham. Don't finish that. There is no buts. This started as fun, and this is fun, and that's what it's going to be okay?" she insisted.

Cunningham looked away, clearly upset by her hasty response. He said nothing for a few moments, instead scratching the back of his head. "I have feelings for you, Haley," he admitted bluntly.

"Well you shouldn't you idiot. What the frak?" she demanded angrily. "Why? Why would you mess something up with stupid feelings? It's not like we could be together anyways… what we're doing is against the rules, remember that?"

"I know, I know. But I can't help it. I thought things were different since we started all of … all of this," he muttered, all the words he'd thought to say were now a mire of uncertainty. She hadn't reacted how he had hoped; in fact it was quite the opposite.

"Well you better help it, SlyPig," she mentioned his call-sign, taking a less personal approach. "We're frak buddies, that's it. If you can't tell the difference then we have to stop. Can you? Or are we through?" she asked seriously, tying her hair back in a pony-tail as if this was all business as usual.

Initially Cunningham didn't reply, he looked away once more attempting to think of some words that would change her mind, despite knowing this was futile. "Nah… I got it. We're good," he grudgingly replied.

"Good." she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek and headed out of the quarters, heaving open the door. On her way out she grabbed her boots and left Cunningham with a confused and distraught look upon his face.

**REC-ROOM **

**1210 Hrs.**

"Gods, Dice, you're already drinking your ass off?" Havoc asked with interest as a group of pilots sat around a table in the rec-room playing a game of Triad.

"Hey, when I play cards I drink and I smoke. What's the problem?" Dice asked unscrupulously chomping on a half-smoked cigar.

"Nothing man, it just seems a bit… much," Havoc responded, glancing down at his cards.

"Yeah, yeah, shut your mouth and let's play cards," Dice said back. Just as Lt. Cortez took another puff of his cigar he noticed Voodoo enter the room. "Voodoo, care for a game?" he asked with a toothy grin.

She seemed to be in an irritated mood as she looked over at the table where Havoc, Dice, Husker and Sparrow sat. "I guess I can kick your ass and take your money for a few minutes," she grumbled. She moved over to the table, lowering herself between Havoc and Sparrow.

"What's the minimum?" she asked.

"Twenty," Sparrow said shortly.

"That's kinda steep," she answered.

"Hey, if the action is too hot then take a step back, sweetheart," Dice laughed, throwing some cubits in the pot.

"Nothing you're a part of could ever be considered too hot, Dice," she told him, irritated by his jab. She threw her money into the pot as well while Husker dealt. She picked up her cards and examined them.

Around the table the other pilots did likewise. There was silence as they all deliberated their next actions quietly to themselves.

"Thirty cubits," Dice put in, tossing the small coins to the center of the table.

"I'm out," Husker said, throwing down his cards.

"Me too," Havoc followed.

"Sparrow, you staying in or what?" Dice pressed, biting down on the end of his cigar regularly.

Lieutenant Toriyama bit her lip while she thought. She didn't have a good hand, but she felt like Dice was bluffing. The guy told wild stories all the time and passed them off as his own, so it wasn't like he couldn't bluff convincingly. She grimaced, however, she didn't have much in the way of money and wanted to enjoy her liberty with some loose change to spend planet-side.

"I'm out," she cursed throwing down her cards. Dice grinned.

"And you, sweetheart? Can you hang in this heat?" he asked, shifting the cigar around in his mouth, the ash of which continued to increase.

"Sure, honey, I've got your number… I'm sure. Thirty cubits, and I'll raise you another thirty," she shot back, dropping the coins into the pot.

"Don't splash the pot!" he chided her. Then calmed himself momentarily. "Okay… I like that, you play bold just like you fly. But I wouldn't expect anything less out of you, Voodoo," he told her. "I'll see your bet."

The two stared at one another for a moment, tension crossing over the table and unnerving the other pilots assembled at the table. Cortez's blue eyes peered deeply into Shaw's own auburn colored eyes. A slight smirk appeared.

"Well?" Toriyama asked, tired of the silence.

"Three up," Dice boasted with a wide smile. He tapped the ash off his cigar and awaited Voodoo's likely losing hand.

"Not bad, but I have… oh what's this?" she asked with a laugh as she laid down her cards. "Oh, it's full colors! Haha, I guess that means I win, huh, _sweetheart_," she replied mockingly. She pulled all the cubits toward her.

Cortez just watched with a grimace upon his face, he was visibly upset over the loss but that couldn't be helped.

Just as Voodoo finished collecting her winnings Cunningham entered the room.

"Hey, Sly, join us for a game, yeah?" Havoc invited the tall pilot. Voodoo looked over at him uncomfortably. He accepted the invite.

"I'm going to go take a shower," Voodoo announced, stashing away her cubits and rising from her seat.

"Want some company?" Dice asked, once again puffing on his cigar.

"Not in a million years," she retorted.

"What about two million?" Dice pressed with a chuckle, but to no avail. Voodoo left the room just as Cunningham sat down. He glanced at her as she passed but she offered no return look.

He had a visibly distraught look on his face as he pulled out some of his own money to play. At this point Toriyama excused herself from the table and left as well.

"So what do you hear, Sly?" Dice asked, assuming a parodied tone of Commander Nash's voice.

"Nothing but the rain," Cunningham said lowly.

"Well grab your gun and bring the cat in, booooy," Dice added, throwing in his money and visibly splashing the pot despite his own insistence that Voodoo not do so earlier.

"Boom, boom, boom," Husker said as he dealt each card.

"Hey, why do they call you SlyPig anyhow?" Havoc asked with interest suddenly. The pilots all turned and looked at him as if he were a fool. "What?"

"My name is Cunningham… I'll let you figure out the rest," he cited.

Suddenly Havoc's face lit up as he understood. "Oh, I got it! Wow, that's clever," he proclaimed. The other pilot's just shook their heads as Cunningham stated they should just play some cards.

**ARGOS CITY, PICON**

**2100 Hrs.**

**Galactica's Liberty**

Argos City was a beautiful resort city split between two locations. The largest portion, and the place of it's founding was along the Illyrian peninsula. After decades and decades of expansion and a booming economy (in no short thanks to the tourist trade) the city expanded across the bay to the island of Poros.

Now, the bridge of Artemis, a hulking suspension bridge painted black and gold, spanned the entirety of the bay. At night it was beautifully illuminated and was a common tourist sight for those visiting the tropical destination.

Picon itself had been relatively unaffected by the war against the Cylons. During the early part of the war the fleet rallied at their headquarters that orbited the colony. Picon was considered very important to the Twelve Colonies of Kobol. It was a center for military research and development, as well as the training center for the Colonial fleet's pilots, crewman, and the location of Colonial Marine Corps Base Naxos; headquarters of the Colonial Marines.

Now, a decade into the war, a powerful fleet maintained a constant presence around the planet, similar to the Caprican defense fleet. These were luxuries that the more developed and ultimately more affluent colonies enjoyed.

Places like Tauron and Aerilon, despite being considered the 'bread basket' of the colonies, were poor and left to fend for themselves, or given a token flotilla of moderately powerful ships to help. As a result Aerilon had actually been occupied by the Cylons just weeks prior to the Galactica's docking with fleet headquarters.

Occurrences like these, however, went largely unnoticed by the populations of the rich colonies. They slept peaceably at night, secure in the knowledge that tens of thousands of Colonial service members would lay down their lives in order to protect them.

Commander Nash had considered it a particularly distasteful thing, the way the Admiralty had picked and chosen who to defend and who to leave to their own devices. He'd always been told it was a matter of what was strategically more important. Yet this argument didn't stand up to examination; the occupation of Aerilon had begun to cause widespread famine among the Colonies for instance.

Nash was from Caprica, but he'd spent enough years in the military to shake off the yuppie air of superiority that soaked many of the officers and socialites that hailed from the Colony, which was considered the center of learning, science, art, entertainment, and government.

He reflected on these things, and a great many other things while sipping casually at a glass of Bethesdan bourbon. It was a particularly fine brand that was not cheap and while Nash had disposed of his aforementioned high-class attitude, he still maintained expensive tastes.

"Commander?" a voice broke his moment of thought. He flexed his brows and glanced beside him at the bar.

"I'm sorry, you were saying, Major?" he resumed the conversation he and Major Archibald Gates had been having. The two had just happened upon one another, although that was not altogether that surprising giving the popularity of the jazz club, known as Pearl's, they had visited.

"I just wanted to express my thanks and the thanks of the crew, sir. It's nice to have an opportunity to enjoy some free time off the Big G," the CAG related referring to one of the Galactica's nicknames.

"It's the least I can do. I'm sure you're aware of the fleet's build up. The Admiralty has something in mind, but they haven't made us aware of it yet; so I think it's important our people get a chance to enjoy some liberty planet-side beforehand," Nash told him. He drank from his glass once more, relishing the taste of the distilled spirit. He was silent for a moment, closing his eyes once more in deep reflection.

"All these years of fighting… all the men and women I've sent to their own end," he started. Gates narrowed his eyes quizzically. "Space is a cold, dark, and lonely place to die, Major. And here I am, on this beautiful planet, in this gorgeous city… and I'm reminded of the fact that I don't want to die out there. Over forty years in the service, and I've spent most of them amongst the stars, and I can honestly say my one true wish is to die peaceably in a place like this, with solid ground under my boots," he lamented softly. His cane rested lightly against the bar beside him, and he swilled down the remainder of his bourbon, signaled the barkeep and ordered another. "Awfully selfish of me, eh?"

"No, sir. Everyone is entitled to their wishes. You've certainly earned the right," Gates told him, sensing the Commander's remorse and survivor's guilt.

"What about you, Major?" Commander Nash asked, forcing a smile. "Where do you want it all to end?"

"Up there," Major Gates replied without much thought, his eyes looked upward, indicating the location of his wish. "But after this war is over. I want to live to be an old man and see my son grow up and get married… you know, all of that. Then when I've lost the spark of life I'd like to fire up a ship and fly it off into the great unknown, blaze a course way beyond the red line." the Major smiled as he described his dream, one he felt was rather silly and something he hadn't shared with anyone.

"A worthy end to a great warrior," Commander Nash toasted, raising his glass.

"Thank you, sir… Well, I had better get going. It was good to speak with you, sir. If you need anything please don't hesitate to call," Major Gates insisted. He shook Commander Nash's hand and exited the bar.

Nash polished off his third bourbon and ordered another. He sat upon his bar stool listening to the easy tunes of the small jazz band assembled on the opposite end of the bar. It relaxed him, reminded him of his younger years long before the war had begun. Suffice it to say there was no peace. Before the articles, before the Cylons, the colonies were constantly at war with one another and Commander Nash was no stranger to conflict, even ten years ago.

As he sipped at another glass he noticed a thirty-something young woman glaring at him from across the bar, fluttering her eye lashes and smiling warmly. She was attractive enough, brown shoulder length hair, and a shapely form that perhaps may have been a degree tighter in her younger days.

Nash smiled inwardly at that thought. Who was he to make judgments of that nature, he wasn't sporting washboard abdominals and indeed possessed something more akin to a paunch.

The young girl crossed the bar and sat beside the apparently surprised aging Commander.

"Hi. I'm Carmen," she offered a dainty hand which he shook.

"Charlie," he introduced himself.

"Military, huh?" she asked him confidently. He narrowed his eyes at her, realizing what this was but deciding to play along anyhow.

"How would you know that?" he probed, he believed he'd lost that air about him a long time ago. Without his uniform he figured it would be difficult to peg him as a Colonial officer. Now he wore a collared button-up shirt, some jeans, and a gray blazer. But apparently he exuded some sense of military bearing.

"I see your kind all the time in here," she elaborated, brushing a strand of silky auburn hair from her face, revealing her rosy cheeks in greater detail. Nash was silent, he continued to sip at his drink until, like those before, it was empty. "So do you want to have some fun?" she asked, her tone sounding innocent but her words insinuating otherwise.

Nash was still, and remained quiet. He closed his eyes thinking back to his youth and the many women he had known and loved. He had seen his days of bed swerving, he'd been considered a lothario perhaps at times, and he even recalled that one young woman that got away. A woman he'd wished to grow old with, but whom refused to spend her life second to the service. He exhaled, casting out those thoughts and that pain as he did.

"How much?" he asked, glancing over at her.

"Thousand cubits for the night," she informed him, raising her brow. "I promise I'm worth it."

"Okay… let's go," Nash answered quietly after some hesitation. He tossed some money on the bar to cover the expenses of his drink. Then he grabbed his cane and exited the small jazz bar, the young woman attached nobly to his arm.

**ARGOS CITY, PICON**

**2230 Hrs.**

**Simbosio Strip**

Four pilots made their way along the glamorous, glitzy center of Poros island. Known as the Simbosio strip, it was lined with bars and clubs. A median in the center of the four lane road was dotted with tropical palm trees. Not far from the strip itself were luxurious beach front hotels, market places, shopping centers, and even a red-light district, which was far less shady then in Caprica City.

Lieutenants Adama (Husker), Cortez (Dice), Cunningham (SlyPig), and Dyson (Banzai) stumbled along, already a half a dozen drinks into their evening. Cortez was clearly the most inebriated of the bunch, taking it upon himself to shout out loud at every opportunity, or make a lewd comment to any attractive female passing by.

"So, where to fellas?" he questioned as he drunkenly giggled.

"I heard Medusa's is pretty good," Dyson suggested.

"Okay then, Medusa's it is!" Dice quickly agreed.

The quadruplets continued on along their path, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the lavish tropical city they had been so lucky to visit. None of them would've ever visited the place, at least it was not likely. It was an expensive destination, and the hotel price they had paid earlier in the night was an indication of that. They had to split two rooms between the four of them just to blunt the sting to their checking accounts.

At last they reached Medusa's; a hip bar and club whose main patronage consisted of those in their early to late twenties. A place that drew in tourists with glamorous girls dancing atop platforms scantily clad, and then convinced them to stay and purchase overpriced drinks likely made as weak as possible.

It was relatively crowded within the venue, which flashed with eccentric schemes of neon lighting. Blues, pinks, purples, oranges, reds, and greens. The entire spectrum flashed in varying patterns and lapsed with different degrees of time and tempo. The music was loud enough to make a shout necessary to communicate and the entire place seemed to assault your entire set of senses. It was confounding and mesmerizing all at the same time.

The dancing girls immediately drew Dice's attention as the four pilots trekked across the hardwood dance floor towards a cluster of tables approximately ten or so feet from the ornately designed bar, which was jam-packed with patrons eager to spend their hard earned money and perhaps even get lucky tonight.

They managed to find an empty place to take up residence, a small round table with three stools. Cunningham offered to stand and a waitress was quick to take their order, intent on earning a solid tip.

As they drank their expensive concoction of exotic liquor and glanced about the scene on the hunt for women in similar moods to their own they attempted conversation.

"A lot like Caprica," Dice declared loudly.

"Yeah, but the women aren't as good," Adama put in, sipping his drink which he considered rather fruity and an insult to his masculinity. Dice had, however, insisted upon the mixture; stating that it was not only strong, but delicious. So far Adama was still skeptical.

"What are you talking about man? There are so many gorgeous women in this place! Look, I could close my eyes and just point somewhere and there'd be a bad ass girl standing there," Dice maintained.

"If you say so," Adama responded.

"Look!" Dice closed his eyes and straightened out his arm, swinging it to and fro and forcing his comrades to duck under his drunken flailing. "Boom!" He halted the movement of his arm and opened his eyes.

He'd achieved a lucky hit, as his finger pointed at two particularly beautiful women that danced with one another in a rather provocative manner. "You see that? I'm tired of always being right," he commented, lowering his hand and drinking some of his cocktail.

The group continued to drink and talk, none of them finding it necessary to take up a conversation with any one of the dozens of women that rhythmically grinded away upon one another on the dance floor.

Picon had indeed been hardly affected by the war. There was no doubting that, the city was as lush and vibrant as it had ever been. Perhaps more so with the upswing in fleet personnel let loose on liberty. It was almost disheartening to see so many people enjoying their lives, oblivious to the war that was being fought off-world. Tens of thousands had died, and it appeared that none of these people were aware of it, or they simply didn't care.

This was enough to agitate the pilots the longer they sat and the more that they witnessed. Here these folks were, dancing and drinking their lives away, throwing down hundreds of cubits on over-priced alcohol, meeting one another for one night couplings only to rise and do it all again the next day. They were clearly civilians; their expensive clothing showed that, illustrating the horde of them as well-dressed rich young people, probably enjoying mommy and daddy's fortune. What purpose did any of them have in life? Surely they had careers, families even? Yet from the pilot's perspective (which was becoming increasingly clouded by numerous drinks) they only existed to enjoy the bountiful wonders of this club and the city that existed beyond it's walls. Argos was a veritable paradise after all; so their minds wandered to thoughts of what these men and women must do with their lives while they risked theirs.

Dice felt the tension rising at the table, he even felt it himself, but he didn't want to let such a thing ruin their liberty. His eyes traveled throughout the club, seeking out a pack of women that could take their minds off their troubles, enable them to forget the war for now and simply enjoy themselves as the people they harshly judged did.

His eyes, however, fell upon something entirely unexpected and quite surprising.

"Oh my Gods! Look at that!" he blurted out, eyes wide with wonder. He pointed over at the bar. Each pilot turned to see what it was he had been pointing at and what had alarmed him to such a great extent.

Dice's finger led their eyes to a perplexing yet interesting view. Before them a young woman with alabaster skin and shoulder length brown hair embraced a similarly aged Colonial Marine (clad in uniform along with several others). She wore a close-fitting strapless red dress that was dangerously short and three inch high heels complete with black leather straps that wound up her calves in a particularly sexy way. What was so alarming, however, was that they knew this young woman.

It was Lieutenant Haley Shaw, Voodoo, as she was called. Perhaps even more alarming than that, was that the Marine she embraced and kissed so passionately was in fact a female. This was a new development, and something yet unknown to them regarding their fellow pilot.

"That is the most awesome thing I have ever seen," Dice swore. He clumsily felt around for his glass, his eyes still locked on the show, then found it and brought it to his lips drinking the entirety of what remained.

"I'm… I'm surprised," Dyson managed to say.

Cunningham's reaction was altogether very different from his comrades'. He was visibly upset, angry even. He watched as their lips locked and as their tongues teasingly played with one another. He saw Haley's hands explore the young Corporal's, and he saw the same thing in return.

Husker looked over and noticed SlyPig's significant agitation. So they _had_ messed around after all. Not surprising considering the amount of times she'd been seen leaving their quarters, snagging her boots on her way. But obviously the affair meant more to Cunningham then it did to her.

"I _knew_ it! I _knew_ Voodoo was a freak! See? I told you guys. Didn't I tell you guys?" Dice continued unabated.

"Dice, enough," Husker told him.

"No. Dude, look. That is so frakking awesome. Gods, she is like fifty million times hotter now," Dice declared. Husker gave him a swift shot to the arm and motioned with his head at Cunningham, whose anger seemed to have transformed into rage. Dice blinked mindlessly at him just as Cunningham started forward.

"What's he doing?" Dice asked his remaining friends.

"You're a frakking idiot, you know that?" Adama told him. Dice looked at him blankly, unsure of what he had done. Adama simply shook his head, but such clueless-ness was expected from Lt. Corvus Cortez.

Cunningham strode across the room, his long legs easily cutting the time it took to reach the bar considerably shorter. As he arrived he quickly grabbed Voodoo by the arm, and yanked her from her ardent coupling.

"What the frak are you doing?" he demanded furiously. His tall form towered over the two females. Cunningham was tall, almost too tall to be a Viper pilot. The bulky, gigantic, livid form he presented to the duo must've been intimidating.

"What? Adrian, what are you doing here?" Voodoo asked, surprised by the intrusion and presence of another lover.

"What difference does that make? What the frak are you doing?" he asked again, none of the rage leaving his body.

"That's none of your business, let go of me!" She commanded attempting to yank free from his strong grip.

"Let my friend go," the Marine Corporal stepped up, undeterred by Cunningham's hulk-ish size.

"This is none of your business," Cunningham snapped at her.

"Yes it is, you frakking asshole," the Corporal shot back, edging closer. Her fellow Marines noticed the altercation and seemed to be assembling behind her. By now Adama, Cortez, and Dyson had also arrived.

"Adrian, let me go," Voodoo ordered again, her tone serious and threatening. Cunningham looked at her for a moment, then did as she asked. Her face was contorted and seething. "Come here. Shauna, I'll be right back," she said. Now she grabbed Cunningham and dragged him from the bar, leading him outside.

The young Marine attempted to follow, but decided against it. Realizing it was probably best to let Haley sort things out for herself. She glanced over at the three newcomers that were apparently coming to aide their giant of a friend. Two of them looked at her somewhat embarrassed, undoubtedly over their friends behavior. But the third just smiled at her and nodded his head repeatedly.

"What the frak is going on in there?" Cunningham pestered as Voodoo had finally gotten him outside. "You frak me, now you're frakking some Marine, who else are you frakking?"

A swift and hearty open handed strike crossed Cunningham's square, unshaven jaw. He was surprised by the strike, and his hand reached up in a vain attempt to ease the sting.

"Say something like that again, and next time I'll close my fist and break your frakking nose! Got it?" Voodoo snarled. Cunningham had never seen her so angry, and he knew that he'd gone too far in his drunken and foolish words. "What I do, and who I do it with is none of your business. Don't think that because I thought you were a good lay means I'm in love with you or something. I told you that's all it was, you're a frakking idiot and clearly one half of your call sign is accurate… now get the frak out of here, Pig," she cried venomously.

The anger that had subsided temporarily now welled up in SlyPig's chest once more, but his own verbal lashing was averted as his trio of friends exited the club.

"Guys, get him the frak out of here," Voodoo told them, calming herself and brushing a stray tendril of hair out of her face.

Banzai and Dice obliged her, grabbing their unruly compatriot before he could utter another word and hauling him away. Husker lingered momentarily, looking sternly at his fellow pilot.

"What?" she asked irritated.

"A little rough on him maybe?" he asked, his blue eyes taking on a soft glow. His kindly manner and laid back features disarmed her further, but she was still upset.

"No. He's been told. Apparently he needs to be reminded. I can't help it if he's just some dumb puppy out looking for love. I'm not the one that's going to give it to him," she asserted. She shook her head, clearly indicating she was not willing to discuss the topic further.

"Husker, let's go," Dice called back.

The young Lieutenant glanced over at his friend. "Be safe, okay? Sorry about all of this," he apologized, then jogged away to catch up with his friends.

"It's not your fault," she said back quietly, although not loud enough for him to hear. She exhaled deeply and attempted to collect herself. What a scene. She calmed herself, breathing in and out repeatedly before she assessed the status of her wardrobe. She adjusted herself then turned to re-enter the club.

**ARGOS CITY, PICON**

**2300 Hrs. **

**Artemis Bridge**

Lieutenant Alexandra Oliveira silently watched the gleaming lights that decorated the expansive suspension bridge known as the Artemis. She raised up her expensive Mati camera and snapped a view night time shots of the bridge.

The young officer, responsible for the tactical information relayed to the CO on Galactica, was also an amateur photographer. _Very_ amateur if you asked her. She still had a lot to learn, and didn't fully understand the differences in aperture selection, focal length, lens types, or the typical photography she could use these things on. She had purchased a typical expensive camera produced by a photography company on Caprica. Mati cameras were certainly professional cameras, but because of that they required someone with know-how. Oliveira simply didn't have time to brush up on the information that required her to be a more skilled photographer, and she took enough joy out of the simplistic photographs she took. Even if they suffered from distortion, loss of contrast, vignetting, or chromatic aberration. It was only when a photo came out blurry that she was disappointed.

After a few more snaps she decided she'd had enough for the night and felt it was a good time to return to her hotel room.

She treaded along a sidewalk on a long curving road and she could hear the sound of waves gently gliding up a sandy beach only 100 feet to her left. She breathed in the cool, crisp air of this paradise.

He relaxing moment was cut premature, however, as a man was tossed from the entry way of a bar a dozen steps ahead of her. The man stumbled then fell to the ground and she realized he was dressed Colonial fleet service blues. She rapidly approached the man to help him up and realized she recognized him.

"Captain?" she asked confusedly.

Captain Alexander Hilarion (Achilles) looked up at the young Lieutenant who addressed him with a confused a dazed look upon his face. His uniform blouse was unbuttoned, he hadn't shaved in a day or so and his overall appearance seemed disheveled and slovenly. This was uncharacteristic of the squadron commander of Primus, and Oliveira was greatly perplex by it.

"Oliveira, nice to see a friendly face," he stammered. She lent a hand and helped him to his feet.

"Nice to see you too, sir. What's going on?" she asked, looking into his green eyes, now bloodshot from what she assumed an abundance of alcohol.

"Oh.. That? Nothing, nothing. They just don't want to serve a veteran I guess," he stated. He looked around, scratching the back of his head, apparently unsure of where he was. "What are you doing?" he asked her.

"I was taking some pictures at the bridge," she began.

"You're a photographer? I never knew that," he interrupted.

"No, no. Just a hobby I picked up a long time ago. My dad bought my the camera the last time I was home on leave," she told him meekly.

"Ah. Nice of him. What are you up to now?" he asked, swaying ever so slightly.

"Going back to my room, sir. I'm on the early bird back to Galactica tomorrow," she said, studying his inebriated state.

"Yeah me too, 0730 right?" she nodded. "Well, let me walk you, huh?" he offered the crook of his arm.

She hesitated momentarily, but decided she'd go along with him. Perhaps he'd sober up some from the distant walk they'd have to make…

After a brief jaunt across a portion of Poros Island the duo arrived at their destination. Oliveira was not the only service member staying at the hotel either, as handfuls of them came in and out of the establishment still clad in their colonial uniforms. They offered favorable prices, so many found the place to be a decent mix of thriftiness and lavishness.

Oliveira noticed the sheen of sweat on the Captain's forehead, and found it rather amusing. The trip was probably somewhere over two miles in distance; which was an easily conquerable length for the fit Captain Hilarion. The affects of alcohol were far reaching it would seem.

"Well, we're here," she said, looking at him and smiling.

"Good. I need a drink," he stated with enthusiasm. She thought about objecting but realized it was not her place. He was a superior officer and a grown man, after all. What he did was his business.

The two walked into the hotel and stopped to part ways in the lobby, Hilarion having located the bar.

"I'm going to hit the rack, sir. What are you planning on doing until your flight?" she asked as the thought just entered her mind. What was he going to do? She didn't think he had a hotel room, and he certainly appeared to be still drunk. His chestnut hair was now a mess of alcohol soaked sweat.

"Eh? I hadn't thought about it really… I probably just hang out in there until then," he replied pointing at the bar. "Take care, Lieutenant. I'll see you on the boat back to Galactica tomorrow." He parodied a salute and crossed the lobby toward the bar, not without some difficulty.

The affects of his drinks had worn off for the most part, much to his own despair. It was a particularly menacing situation, to spend so much money in an establishment only to be spurned and cast out like some sort of leper.

But then he had run out of cash, and opted to run a tab with the joint, although he had no way in which to pay for the tab. In actuality being tossed on the street was an easy let off, and it was probably due to his uniform and the war that allowed for such velvet treatment instead of severe beating in the alley. Achilles didn't want to think of it that way, however, and had turned the place and it's patrons against him in his own mind simply because of the uniform he wore.

Now he sat in this moderately attractive bar and ordered another double shot of cheap well-whiskey. He'd run a tab here as well, despite insufficient funds to pay. That didn't matter now, however, as he only wished to number the pain in his chest.

"What are you drinking?" a voice asked.

Captain Hilarion's glazed eyes looked over to see Oliveira's short figure beside him. Her always bright face beaming a carefree smile upon him.

"Whiskey," he muttered, almost ashamed to be in her presence. He was a drunk after all. An operational, tricky drunk, one that could keep it in his personal life and prevent it from entering his occupation. Very few aboard the Galactica knew about that. It was his way of coping with the war, but now things were worse and he felt he'd lose a handle on his habit.

Oliveira was cheerful officer; the type of person that never seemed downcast and certainly didn't involve herself in some of the shadier business that many colonial troops found themselves entangled in. The outward appearances as far as anyone could tell was that she was the perfect officer, and was innocent of any misdeeds. But then if Hilarion's appearance to others was any indication of what was on the surface, then she may have been very different in the end.

"I'll have one, too," she told the barkeep as she climbed her way onto the bar stool beside the inebriated squadron commander. She didn't have much interest in the drink, she usually only drank if she was celebrating something or had a good enough reason to. She felt like something was gnawing at Captain Hilarion, however, and realized he may need affectionate support for some unknown reason. So she sought to open him up, and learn why it was that he was drunkenly ejected from a tavern earlier in the night, or why he was there in the first place.

"Didn't think you drank," he murmured, sipping at his own straight double shot of liquor.

"I don't, usually. But I'm on libo, so why not?" she asked, drinking down her whiskey with amazing alacrity. Hilarion chuckled, and the two ordered another round.

After awhile they had both had a fair amount of liquor. Hilarion managed to rack up several more glasses than Oliveira, but then he was twice her size and she did carry her own alcohol well.

"So why the downcast look all night, Cap?" she asked, resting her head against her hand which was propped up by a bent arm on the bar. The dazzling effects of whiskey slowly creeping up on her.

"Eh, you don't want to know, trust me," he replied, pouring more of the brown liquid into his mouth.

"Try me," she told him.

Hilarion exhaled, his head drooped for a moment then he picked it back up as he resolved himself. "Well, I got some mail," he began, his fingertip tracing the rim of his now empty glass. "It was from my wife."

Oliveira continued to listen, waving off the bartender who moved into to take another order of drinks.

"She sent me divorce papers," Hilarion said, signaling the bartender back to him and ordering another drink. Oliveira watched the whiskey cascade into the small glass.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she offered, unsure of what else to say.

"Well… the real stink of it is that we should've never got married," he observed aloud. "We were college sweethearts, for whatever that's worth. We broke up when I shipped off to join the Colonial fleet. But one day when I was home on leave we hooked up for old times sake and that turned out to be a bad idea. Couple weeks later I get a call from her while I'm running basic atmospheric air combat maneuvering on Scorpia, she told me she's pregnant. So I wanted her to get an abortion but she wouldn't…

"Long story short, we got married for the baby's sake. Which I might add is never a good idea. When it was time for her to give birth she ended up having a miscarriage. It was pretty tragic, even I was upset. I mean, once she decided to have it then I told myself I was going to be a dad and I was going to be a damn good one. She never believed that, though. We used to fight and she was so vicious. I promised we'd resolve our problems, promised we'd try for another kid, but the war kept me away," he stopped what he saying, then licked his lips, closed his eyes and was quiet for a moment.

"According to the letter I got she's been messing around with one of my old college buddies," he began, changing the course of the story. "Some Doctor or some such, I guess she's pregnant again. Says she wants nothing to do with me and expects me to sign the papers and mail them back to her so she can live happily ever after with Doctor-boy. Of course she still managed to clean out my bank account," Hilarion tapered off, rubbing his eyes thoroughly then partaking of his drink once more.

Oliveira was quite, she certainly didn't know what to say now. She thought for a moment before saying something.

"If it was a mistake… why not just sign the papers and be done with her?" she asked hesitantly, unsure of what sort of reaction that would draw from the drunken Captain.

"I don't know. You'd think it would be that easy, right? But we were going to have a child together, you know? Something changed I guess, I don't know; it's stupid probably. But then all this time out here on the front you hear about how excited these guys are to go home and see their wives or girlfriends and you just like to think about how great it is to do the same.

"I guess in my own mind I started to shape her into the perfect girl, exactly what I wanted. All of the good and none of the bad. Started to think she missed me and loved me cause I was gone, cause I was risking my life for her. Stupid me, thinking some loving wife was waiting back home eager for me to arrive so we could try to have another kid. Turns out she wasn't waiting at all," Hilarion grumbled, emptying another glass and shaking his head contritely.

Oliveira felt bad for him, but she also felt as though there was nothing she could say that would assail his grief. She had no experience in the matter. Her parents were happily married, and had been her entire life. She never even so much as heard them raise their voice at one another. She'd only ever experienced what could be described as the "perfect life". She was extremely close with her brothers, sisters, and parents.

"Look, you can't just stay here all night and drink yourself into a coma, sir," she told him placing a hand on his shoulder. "You can crash on the couch in my room or something. Get some rest you know? Then we can go back to Galactica in the morning and I'm sure you'll start to feel better when you get back with your squadron," she offered with a reassuring smile.

He considered the offer. It made sense and it was extremely kind of her. He was tired, and sleep sounded wonderful, but he didn't like the idea of squatting in the room she paid for.

"Okay… yeah, all right," he replied, nodding.

"All right then," she signaled the bartender for the check. The man produced two receipts, one for each of them. She promptly paid hers and looked over at Hilarion who had an awkward look upon his face. "What's wrong?"

"Uh, I got kicked out of that place earlier because I ran a tab and had no way to pay it," he admitted, embarrassed.

She looked away with a tiny smile and paid his bill as well.

"I'll pay you back…" he assured her meekly as they began to leave the bar.

"Don't worry about, sir. I know you're good for it. You get paid the 1st and 15th every money the same as me," she answered with a minor laugh. She held open the door for him as he managed his way through. Now all she had to worry about was ensuring he didn't destroy the room in his drunkenness or keep her awake with snoring or something similar.


	5. Glorious Paradise

**Chapter Five: Glorious Paradise**

**ARGOS CITY, PICON**

**0917 hrs.**

**Helena Beach**

Adama hadn't felt the warm encompassing feel of sand around his feet in a long time. Though he may have been relatively new to the Galactica, he had been in a pipeline of almost constant training for nearly two years. From officer candidate school, the basic school, flight school, and the Fleet fighter weapons training school. It had been a busy two years, filled with a heavy curriculum of hours upon hours of lectures mixed with training hops to create a mixture of physical and mental fatigue to see if you'd continue on and even excel in such a state.

Adama had excelled; graduating in the top ten of his class in every formal school he had attended. He nevertheless had earned himself a reputation as a bit of rebel, as he often bucked under certain types of authority. It wasn't that he was a hard man to lead, it just required that you have a certain leadership style in order for him to submit himself to your command. Adama himself wished for nothing more than to command. As soon as he entered the fleet he'd wanted to be a squadron commander, and he was sure that when he attained that goal he'd already be hungry for the next step as CAG, and then on and on.

But he banished thoughts of career advancement, and the drudgery that came with his years of Viper training. He traded those thoughts to enjoy his present, which was walking along a sandy beach in Argos, basking in the crisp rays of the nearest solar body, Thetis. He trekked along in shorts with a Primus Squadron t-shirt, the Pegasus that illustrated his uniform's arm patch was etched on the back.

Beside him a friend and fellow pilot walked, Lieutenant Jaycie McGavin. She was a Raptor pilot, and she had a couple of years in the fleet on Adama. She was happy to be on Picon, it was her home, although she hadn't been given permission to travel all the way to her home of record, it was enough just to be on the planet.

She wore cut off shorts and a bikini top and enjoyed the gentle heat of the star that provided the wonderful light for this glorious paradise.

"So how was your night out with the boys?" she questioned with a grin.

"Dice got piss drunk," Adama said shortly, as was often his way.

"What a surprise," they both chuckled at the thought of their alcohol induced comrade stumbling around, an act common to his nature.

"I heard about Voodoo," she continued.

Adama looked at her, at first as if to deny any event she may have heard of and then realized it was probably a fruitless attempt. "Already, huh?" he responded.

"Yeah, even if we're not on the big G word still travels like wild fire," she said, kicking up some sand as she walked.

"I would think that people have more on their hands then spreading rumors or retelling stories about other people's lives," Adama stated. If there was one thing that bothered him about military life it was 'scuttlebutt', or the rumor mill as it was known.

Everything from possible operations, progress in the war, Cylon secret weapons, people's personal lives, promotions, demotions, and punishments were spread about and the crew ate it up with eager anticipation; usually accepting it as fact.

Rumors could destroy morale, or raise expectations and they were truly a danger to the overall unit cohesion aboard the Galactica. Not to mention the fact that what happened between Voodoo and SlyPig really wasn't anyone else's business. It was alarming that Jaycie somehow already knew about something that just occurred the night before.

"I'm not surprised. I know Voodoo well enough, and she doesn't like getting attached," Jaycie said after a period of brief silence.

"I suppose. Still, she seemed a little rough," Adama said, recalling the barbed tongue she had used to lash Cunningham the night prior. Cunningham himself had become sullen and upset and simply returned to the hotel room early that evening.

"She's been through a lot, Bill. You shouldn't assume anything about anyone. She's lost some important people in her life," Jaycie mentioned casually.

"Who hasn't?" Adama questioned with an irritated tone. It always bothered him when people referred to 'losing important people', and then using that as an excuse for their behavior. He had lost his own mother and sister when he was still a child; to a terrorist attack no less. He still managed to grow up normal, and take responsibility for his own actions. "We've all lost someone we care for, it's not an excuse to act in whatever way you want."

They were quiet after his stern words, which he had delivered in a tone that indicated anger. For that moment Jaycie saw the serious side to him, and wondered about the losses that he may have sustained in his life. She'd been lucky in her life. None of her family had been killed in this war, or in any tragic manner before that. Sure, grandparents had passed away but that was to be expected. She'd even lost some friends she'd known in college, or a few from flight school that had died fighting in the war. That was hard enough to deal with, she could never imagine losing family or someone she truly loved like Voodoo had.

"Either way, Cunningham shouldn't have come on so strong like that. It's not like anyone can have a relationship anyways. We frak to stay sane for Gods sake," she announced shaking her head.

Adama turned and looked at her with a raised brow. "Yeah?" he asked curiously.

"Look, hotshot, I like you, but we're the same way as they are you know… I mean I'm different than Voodoo, but you know this isn't going anywhere right? I mean you realize we _can't_ be together right?" she asked seriously, as much as she may have wanted it herself, she was keen on not showing that.

"I know. Don't worry," he said plainly. She was a bit put off, and perhaps surprised he didn't make an attempt to argue the point with her. Perhaps he was content with the casual relationship that they had.

The pair walked in silence then for a few minutes along the sandy beaches. The air was tepid and a tad humid, but it felt good. So different then the stale, recycled air aboard the Galactica. It was really amazing how used to that they got. But they quickly realized the difference whenever they made it planet side and breathed in true, one hundred percent fresh oxygen.

Across the waves all manner of activities were taking place, watercraft and water sports all occurring just off shore. Much to the delight of those participating. Adama had wondered just how far reaching this war had been, and he was getting a painfully awkward answer from this planet.

When they were operating, deployed within the BSG out in the midst of space it seemed like human life, and mankind's own existence was tenuous at best. It felt as though they were constantly engaged in this brutal and epic battle to stop forces of the holocaust from visiting that upon mankind. The fleet was Athena's battered shield, these pilots were her spear, and they struck at the enemy fervently, often with reckless abandon. All for the sake of protecting paradises like this one.

But how did anyone here feel about that? Did they know what it was to be saved every day just above their heads? The answer was obviously no, these people had even grown used to the state of war as it had been so many years now since it started.

Adama remembered the early days of the war. When the first batches of Centurions, programmed as soldiers to supplement the Caprican defense forces began to rebel, killing troops they'd operated with for years during the inter-Colony wars.

It was horrible. Caprica was entirely caught off guard, and when vanguards of raiders decimated Caprica City while Centurions poured into the streets shooting every human being in sight they had no idea how to respond. The politicians fled, police were being gunned down on street corners as they frantically attempted protect the civilians that now fled in hysteria. Massive riots broke out, some civilians even tried to fight off the toasters, but were ruthlessly slain in the process.

Adama was just a teenager then, he hadn't fully understood the entirety of it all. But he remembered his father and his uncle doing their best to escape Caprica City in the fastest way possible. They fled to a small village maybe fifty miles from the city as the Caprican defense forces finally organized and marched back into the city, destroying what remained of the marauding robots.

Shortly after that the articles of colonization were established, and the twelve colonies of Kobol united under one flag to fight against one enemy. It was an odd change, old and hated rivals and enemies quickly became some of the closest allies. Humanity, initially reeling from the massive, hellish war that the Cylons had unleashed upon them began to recover.

After a few years Caprica had fully recovered. A fleet had rallied to defend it, and new illustrious ships had been created called Battlestars, which pushed the Cylons further and further away from the core colonies. It had become a far cry from the original pandemonium, and the absolute terror that gripped every man, woman, and child in the early days of the war.

But that was just it in the end. While these rich, happy-go-lucky folks enjoyed their vacation time on Picon, others on Aerilon suffered. Their planet had recently been seized by the Cylons, and that affected more than just Aerilon. Famine was costing people's lives on the poorer worlds. Places like Tauron and Sagitarron felt the pinch, while Picon still went about life as usual, sheltered under the incomprehensible might of an assembled fleet overhead.

This was enough to irritate many of the service members, even those from the richer colonies. Adama himself was Caprican, but his family had emigrated from Tauron, and so it was very hard to believe that while people from all over the twelve colonies rallied beside one another to fight in the frightening vacuum of space, there were still those people that decided to stick to their differences and let the lower class fight this war for them. So long as their champagne and caviar continued to flow. Despicable, Adama thought.

"Why the long face, hotshot?" Jaycie asked suddenly, cueing on the downcast gloom he suddenly exuded.

"Nothing. Just thinking about the war," he replied, airily kicking some pebbles along his path.

"Ah you're not supposed to think of that sort of thing while we're here," she teased. She stepped in front of him and put his hands on her hips, wrapping her own around his neck and using her hand to run through his hair while she looked into his eyes.

He cracked a small grin as she kissed him multiple times, attempting to cheer him up with her cute expressions.

"I have to go, though. My parents are coming to visit me for the rest of today and tonight, before I go back to the fleet. I'm supposed to be meeting them for lunch," she told him, as she wriggled free of his grasp and began walking once more. "What do you and the boys have planned?"

Adama grimaced for a moment, recalling the night of heavy drinking and knowing that was likely on the schedule for this evening as well. "I'm sure Corvus has something planned," he grumbled.

She smiled broadly and leaned in for another kiss. "Have fun then, hotshot. I'll catch you later, yeah?" she stated. He nodded and she turned to scamper away, kicking up some of the sandy beach as she jogged off. He watched her leave then turned his attention to the water.

It was clear, aquamarine in color, and looked incredibly inviting. He stepped forward and let the water rush up along the beach and break over his bare feet. It was warm, warmer than any lakes he'd swam in when he was a boy. He'd never made it to any of the oceans on Caprica. He was never that interested in them having grown up in the big city. But now that he was here, standing upon this shore and gazing out on the endless horizon he found it breathtaking, and chastised himself for never taking advantage of Caprica's own famed beaches. Perhaps he'd get a chance to enjoy them one day, if he survived this war.

He cast off his shirt and jaunted into the surf a few feet before diving in, completely submerging himself in the warm serenity that the water offered. Refreshing, relaxing, and altogether splendorous. He was happily reminded of how great an opportunity this liberty was…

**Battlestar Galactica**

**1200 Hrs.**

**Commander's Quarters**

"Colonel, come in," Commander Nash welcomed, shifting more weight onto his cane and motioning the newly arrived EXO toward a table where a few glasses of cool water awaited. He pulled a chair out for the Colonel, then hobbled around to the other side of the table and sat down himself. "How did you enjoy your liberty?" he asked interestedly.

"I should thank you sir, it was very nice, actually," the Colonel admitted as he took a seat across from his commanding officer. "I went fishing."

"Fishing?" Nash responded with a raised brow.

"Yes, sir. Fishing," Faulk said with a smile, taking in a drink of the hydrating fluid.

"Catch anything?" Nash pressed.

"Not a damn thing," Faulk replied laughingly. "How was yours?"

Nash eased back in his seat momentarily and contemplated the answer. The truth of the matter was that it was rather dreary. He had enjoyed being planetside, that was for certain. But he was getting old, and it became increasingly difficult for him to move about and take in the sights. Instead he languished in his hotel room for the majority of his stay, only making it down to the bar, or out to the hotel's pool.

"Just a couple of relaxing nights at the hotel, Colonel," he said simply, sipping at his drink.

The Colonel nodded, satisfied by Nash's reply. He didn't need to get into the details, surely they wouldn't be very interesting anyhow.

Faulk had enjoyed his trip; it was simple and outside of Argos City. He was able to relax and enjoy nature without the hustle and bustle of the metropolitan center he'd flown into. It had been a good experience all in all, despite his lack of success catching anything. Ultimately it wouldn't have mattered, he'd have thrown what he caught back.

"So on to business, sir," Faulk began, whipping out a manila folder and sifting through some papers. "The additional ammunition and weapons have been loaded up. Magazines one and three are now packed to the brim with small arms ammunition, explosives, and fragmentation grenades. Take your pick it's down there. We've stored all the crew served weapons, light anti-armor weapons, 60mm and 81mm mortars in weapon lockers five through eight," the Colonel read off the report, shaking his head at the numbers of weapons and copious amounts of ammunition that was being brought aboard. He slid the paperwork over to the Commander, who would be signing to state the items had been received.

"Fleet must have some wild stuff coming if they are loading our Marines down with all this extra gear," Faulk stated.

"I imagine so. We should be getting a brief from the Admiralty tonight or tomorrow," Commander Nash assured him as he signed the paperwork and slid the folder back to his executive officer.

A moment later a knock on the hatch to the commander's quarters interrupted them. It eased open and the Commander's Marine guard peaked in.

"Sir, I have a Captain Shepard and Gunnery Sergeant Clay here to see you," he told Commander Nash specifically.

"Let them in, Private."

"Yes, sir."

The door opened further and two Marines stepped inside, clad in their service uniforms which were similar in design and style, save for the fact that they were all black rather than the service blues the fleet wore. In addition the Marines bloused their trousers with their boots, even on their service uniforms, and they wore dark blue berets with their unit insignia blazoned on the front.

"Captain Shepard and Gunnery Sergeant Clay reporting as ordered, sir," the first Marine spoke. It was the Captain, he was a tall, lean man and carried himself with absolute confidence. He stood rigidly at attention with his arm and hand extended in the form of a perfect salute. His subordinate Staff Non-Commissioned Officer was likewise posed.

"At ease, gentleman," Commander Nash alleviated them, returning the salute. The two Marines dropped into a modified position of parade rest, their feet shoulder width apart and their hands clasped lightly in the small of their back. "May I see your orders, Captain?" the Commander asked.

"Certainly, sir," Captain Shepard replied. He stepped forward, producing a leather pouch which heretofore was clenched under his arm.

Both Marines had the common haircut that identified them as such. Their hair was trimmed on the sides, while maintaining some degree of length on the top. Shepard kept the top of his hair more tightly trimmed then the Gunny. His shaved hair was brown, his eyes were keen and blue, and he had a small scar on his chin and the upper left side of his forehead.

Gunny Clay had sharp features, green eyes and light brown hair. He was thinner than the bulky and muscular Captain, but he looked no less intimidating. Neither of the men flinched or moved in the slightest as Commander Nash reviewed their orders.

"So, you're from MSOB?" Commander Nash questioned. MSOB was the Colonial Marine Special Operations Battalion. The Marines from that unit were highly trained, small tactical units. MSOB was a unit that was fully capable of operating independently from a standard Marine rifle battalion. They specialized in direct action raids, long range reconnaissance, and sabotage behind enemy lines. They were capable of conducting warfare both conventionally, and unconventionally. They were a rare breed within the Corps, and it was not often that many people saw them directly, much less in action.

"Yes, sir," Captain Shepard replied bluntly. The pride in his voice was noticeable, however.

"Maybe you can tell me what it is you're doing here exactly. These orders only state that you are to stand detached from your battalion, and are re-assigned to the Galactica for follow on operations. What follow on operations, Captain? I haven't been made aware of anything as of yet," Commander Nash was probing. He wondered how by the book this Captain was. If he did know anything else would he share that information, or would he remain tight lipped?

"I'm not authorized to divulge any additional information regarding our mission, sir. My apologies," the Captain responded, answering the Commander's question and confirming for him that he was indeed tight lipped. It was to be expected. These men were the best of the best; it made sense that they'd stick to protocol even when questioned by a superior officer.

"Very well, Captain. You and your men can get situated in the visitors quarters. They're comfortable enough. Enjoy your stay aboard my ship. That'll be all," Commander Nash stated.

The two Marines snapped to attention and saluted once more. "Thank you, sir. It's an honor to be here," they lowered their hands and crisply exited the room.

"Sharp fellows," Faulk observed. "Fleet keeps piling it on don't they? First tons of additional weapons and ammunition, and now a team of snake eaters from MSOB?" The second-in-command of Galactica shook his head.

"They're being assigned to almost every Battlestar," Nash began saying. "Commander Green called me this morning after a team came aboard the Nemesis; he asked me if I knew anything about it. I told him no," the Commander leaned forward, tapping the mahogany wood of his table.

The picture was becoming clearer and clearer, and Commander Nash knew what was coming up would be very dangerous and probably casualty intensive. Fleet had it in their minds for some major offensive of some sort. All he'd need to learn now was the particulars. Where it was, when it was, and what was the objective. Admittedly he wasn't sure if he could handle another massive engagement. He'd grown accustomed to the small clashes the BSGs were having with Baseships out in the empty void.

It had been over a year since the last major battle of the war. The Battle of Oren Island, as it was now being called; was a fight over a Colonial Fleet forward operating station called Oren. The base itself was carved into a very large asteroid, and was utilized as a place for ships to rearm and re-supply. The Cylons attacked it in order to push back logistical support for the Colonial forces. Of course Oren was well protected, and reinforcements were brought in for it's defense. The battle had been long, the combat heavy, and the casualties extremely high.

In the end the station was destroyed, the Battlestars Erasmus and Universal had been lost as well. In addition there were countless other frigates, heavy cruisers, and destroyers obliterated. Coupled with the losses from the air wings it had been a devastating defeat for the Colonial forces and one of the costliest in the entire war. The Galactica alone lost over one hundred of it's hands in the fight. It was hard for the Commander to get over, and he knew whatever was coming had the potential to be far worse.

**ARGOS CITY, PICON**

**2330 Hrs.**

**Caspian Hotel**

By all accounts their hotel was a five star sort of place. It had wonderful goose down comforters on the beds, in conjunction with massive pillows that seemed to absorb you when you put your weight on them. The rooms were clean and the service was good. But the prices were very expensive, as any of them could've guessed from their location in Argos. Poros island in particular was an expensive district, mainly built up for the tourist industry. But the officers had enjoyed their stay there and this would be the last night for them, as they were all set to return to the Galactica the next day on the midday shuttle.

"Ugh, what is taking him so long?" Cortez complained, glancing down at his watch.

Cortez (Dice), Adama, and Dyson (Banzai) were assembled in the lobby of the Caspian, patiently awaiting Cunningham's arrival. This evening they were joined by McGavin's ECO, Lt. Toriyama (Sparrow).

Dice had made a comment about how well she cleaned up earlier in the night when she had arrived to meet the four of them. She had an exotic look to her, but one that she downplayed while serving aboard the Galactica. Though she had always been considered attractive, she never made any attempt to highlight that. Now, however, dressed for a night on the town, in a black mini-skirt and high heels… well, it was only natural that Dice would be the first to say something out loud. He did manage to keep somewhat appropriate at least, and she had accepted his compliment gracefully.

"I'll go see what's up," Adama announced. He stepped into the elevator and depressed the button for the floor where their rooms were located.

Cunningham was not originally keen on drinking heavily. Despite his size and his rather brutish features, he was a benign young man who preferred simple pass times. The debauchery and outlandish behavior he often experienced alongside Cortez, Adama, and the others was a result of alcohol still being a new experience for him. The entirety of it was contradictory to his upbringing. He'd spent most of his youth as an athlete and student, and prided himself in the purity of his body and mind.

Of course the military changed that. He certainly wasn't alone in that regard, either. As many of the young, wide-eyed officers made their way to the fleet they began to interact with those who'd come from more seedy backgrounds, or who had enjoyed the substances so prevalent in society before their enlistment. It resulted in men and women not apt to alcoholism suddenly taking a great liking to it; they consumed it with greater voracity than their fellows that had originally introduced them to it.

But with the blissful impact of laughter, fun and excitement also came a darker side to the stuff. It could have a powerful grip on Cunningham, despite his kindly nature alcohol could often incite him to anger or even violence; evidenced by his minor episode with Voodoo the night before.

This was something he recognized and found deplorable. Yet there was always a remaining influence from his fellow pilots, whom insisted that to be a Viper pilot was to drink, frak, and fight. That figured most prominently with Lieutenant Cortez, although his fighting skills didn't seem as proficient as Adama's or Dyson's.

In recognition of his loss of control Cunningham had decided he would not partake in this evening's festivities. He hadn't alerted his comrades, however, whom he assumed were the ones now knocking on the hotel room door. He traipsed over and swung it open, revealing a well dressed William Adama.

"What're you doing, man?" Adama asked, his brow was raised as he was presented with the image of a robe-clad giant.

"I'm not going out tonight, Bill," Cunningham said seriously.

"Why not?" Adama inquired in his rough tone.

"I'm sick of getting hammered and being an idiot. I embarrassed myself last night and probably wrecked things between Voodoo and I," Cunningham lamented, he turned and walked back into the hotel room. Adama followed him.

"Look, Adrian, I'm not sure there's anything to wreck between you guys… I mean, she seems pretty adamant about that," Adama attempted to say with some levity.

"I know, I know. I'm a big, dumb ape for trying. But I can't help it. I really like her, Bill. I got drunk, saw her last night, and just I got so frakking angry!" Cunningham grit his teeth, shook his head and looked away from his friend.

"I don't know what to tell you," Adama began. "I just think you should forget her… come out with us, there's a million fish in the sea."

"I can't forget her… I'm not going out, Bill. Just leave," Cunningham flopped down on the bed just as the door eased open once more. Dice stepped inside.

"What the frak are you doing, Cunningham?" he demanded, almost angrily. "Get your ass up, we've been waiting downstairs for half an hour!"

"I'm not going anywhere, Dice," Cunningham declared resolutely.

"What? Are you still all upset cause Voodoo was making out with some girl last night?" Dice asked impatiently. "Get over it, man. You should know she's all about the casual gigs, man. Doesn't like to get tied down," Dice informed him; of course Cunningham was already aware of that.

There was silence in the room for several moments. Cunningham refused to budge from his place on the bed, seemingly pouting about the entire ordeal.

"Okay, how about this; I'll go pull out a whole bunch of cubits and we'll go to a strip club!" Dice suggested, his eyes widening at the prospect. "Yeah, yeah, that'll cheer you up. It's on me, Cunningham, c'mon!"

Cunningham made a face indicating he wasn't changing his mind. Adama looked over at Dice, indicating with a nod of the head that the two should just leave him be, but Dice was not about to give up.

He walked over to Cunningham's suitcase, picked out a pair of pants and a shirt and tossed them on the bed beside the hulking pilot. "Let's go, you've got ten minutes to get dressed and get your ass downstairs," he ordered in a military manner.

"Dice, frak off, man. I'm not going anywhere," Cunningham resounded staunchly.

"Okay, look… I didn't want to say this, but obviously I have to. You're being a bitch, Sly. 100%… I'm sorry but you obviously need to hear it," Dice told him, shrugging.

Cunningham's eyes narrowed and he stood up. "Why is that, Corvus?" he asked with eyes leveled on his agitator.

"Because, you're sitting around here moping over a girl who frakked you on a whim!" Dice informed him. "You think she's got feelings for you or something?"

"Hey, you don't know shit about what's going on between us, Dice," Cunningham said back, raising his voice slightly.

"Sure I do, everybody does, Sly. You're the only clueless one here. You think you're the first pilot on Galactica she's frakked?" Dice shouted at him.

"What are you saying?" Cunningham demanded, stepping forward.

"I'm saying you're an idiot if you think Voodoo doesn't like having sex with whoever the frak she wants!" Dice retorted, his voice still raised. Cunningham took another step forward but Adama interceded, intent to make sure this heated conversation didn't escalate to something worse.

Cunningham stopped abruptly, considering Dice's words. He knew them to be true. Voodoo had always been the type of person that preferred no attachments, at least on the romantic level. They hadn't known much about her past, she tended to keep them in the dark about it. But they were aware she had suffered some rather devastating losses in the past because of the war. Perhaps it was the reason why she prevented any sort of romantic ties now… Cunningham had recognized that when they had originally gotten involved, but he naively sought to change that. He'd reasoned that perhaps he could thaw her heart out so she could once again feel something for someone. So now he was proven wrong, he was just too stubborn to accept it.

He hesitated for several moments, glaring toward Dice but seeming to look beyond him. Adama considered himself to be in a rather awkward position between the two.

"Fine, I'll go," he said suddenly.

"Good, we'll be downstairs. Hurry your ass up," Dice replied without skipping a beat, then exited the room. Adama followed in trace, rather confused by the dynamic event that just transpired.

**FLEET HEADQUARTERS**

**1930 Hrs.**

**Senior Staff Briefing Room**

"Good evening ladies and gentleman. My apologies for the late briefing, but as you're all aware we've been preparing for a major operation," Admiral Wyatt Hawkins addressed the crowd of assembled Commanders and Colonels, all of them commanding officers of respective vessels (as well as several senior Marine officers) drawn together into the current fleet orbiting Picon.

Admiral Hawkins was a well built, aged Colonial officer. A man that had enjoyed a meteoric rise through the ranks thanks to his impressive piloting skills, charisma, and natural talent for command. He'd originally been the commanding officer of the Battlestar Columbia before making Admiral, and consequently becoming the commanding officer of the Athena.

"Several weeks ago Cylon forces managed to wrest control of Aerilon away from the Colonial forces defending the planet. It was a brutal campaign and unfortunately we weren't able to support the defenders thanks to our own resources being stretched so thin.

"In any event, there are reports from pockets of resistance on the planet. According to these reports the Cylons are gathering up prisoners and transporting them off world for some unknown reason. In addition to that, all exports have obviously halted, causing widespread food shortages across the remaining eleven colonies," the Admiral continued, reading over his prepared report whilst standing behind a podium in front of the crowd of senior Colonial officers.

Though the loss of Aerilon had caused serious famine in many of the Colonies, it was not as widespread as he suggested. The richer colonies had yet to truly feel the strain of resources, save for the poor on those worlds, of course.

A holographic globe of Aerilon appeared behind the Admiral. On the globe all of the major continents were represented, along with major city centers. There were probably only a dozen or so cities that had populations in the millions, as many of the denizens of Aerilon enjoyed the rural lifestyle and undertook lives as farmers and crop cultivators.

Areopagus was the capital city, and largest by way of population and square mileage. It was also the center of the Cylon occupation; where they rounded up their prisoners in one location before transporting them away. The attack on Aerilon itself had left Areopagus in ruins, along with the other major cities on the planet.

The population had suffered greatly from aerial bombardments, intense urban warfare as well as organized campaigns in the rural regions of the planet whereby the Cylons captured and destroyed town after town. Those that had somehow survived the ruthless attacks had fled to the mountains, or deep into the forests of their world. Vainly hoping to survive the Cylon search and destroy parties that harassed them constantly.

"Our fleet is being tasked with liberating Aerilon," the Admiral announced, taking a moment to glance at the globe, which now illuminated locations across the planet where Fleet Intelligence believed the largest concentration of Cylon ground forces were located. "It's not going to be an easy task and we fully expect a great deal of casualties. But this is a necessary operation. We will not abandon our brothers and sisters in their greatest time of need."

The Admiral was quiet again for a moment, allowing for the gravity of the mission to sink in. Many of the officers looked to one another, whispering or speculating on the upcoming mission. He didn't need to tell them casualties would be high, but he had done so anyway. They would know this, such an operation had never been performed. Not only was Aerilon the first and only colony of Kobol to be taken by the Cylons, but it would be the first that they would attempt to liberate something as large as a planetary body.

The closest experience anyone had near that was when the Cylons had initially revolted. As an intricate and important part of human society Cylons were everywhere. They served within the military as well as for hard labor, construction, and even demolition. So when the revolt came, they literally rose up from everywhere. It had been catastrophic in the early days of the war, catching the colonists entirely by surprise. It was not an easy task rallying soldiers, protecting civilians, and then ousting those rebellious Cylons from city centers, and then the planets they had inhabited. The Cylons then rallied in deep space and returned with a more appropriate armada of ships and divisions of battle-ready Centurions.

Of course they had always made forays onto planets, at times penetrating orbital defenses and landing raiding parties on the surface of Tauron, Geminon, Aquaria, and Canceron. All of these had been failures on the greater scale of things, but they had succeeded in destroying key infrastructure and military targets on those planets. In addition to that, they had succeed in causing massive amounts of collateral damage killing thousands. They had even detonated a nuclear device on Aquaria. Because of this raiding most of the civilian populace was terrified of a possible Cylon attack. The fleet was simply spread too thin to protect every planet adequately.

"The exact time of the operation has yet to be decided, but understand that what you hear in this briefing is expressly classified. You are not to relay information regarding this operation to anyone unless the Admiralty has decided it's okay," the Admiral told them in a serious voice.

"The details of the operation have not been fully fleshed out. But here are the main parameters." Dozens of glowing red beacons appeared on screen, each of them representing a Cylon Baseship that orbited Aerilon. "We'll be jumping into the system with the intent of landing as many ground forces as possible to secure what remains of the leading civic centers planet side," the Admiral turned to point out the blue beacons that now appeared, representing the assembled Colonial attack fleet.

"To do this successfully we must engage and destroy the Cylon fleet. That won't be an easy task, people. There are well over a dozen Cylon Baseships orbiting Aerilon, and from what we can gather the Cylons are serious about holding the planet.

"The intent is to either completely annihilate their fleet, or we rough them up enough and get them to flee. However, if they flee with a significant amount of their ships in tact then we'll have to pursue. It's important that we cripple their armada to prevent a counterattack, which could potentially be catastrophic, especially for our ground forces. It's absolutely vital we succeed off world, because if we fail we will abandoning our people on the ground to slaughter. And mark my words, they will be slaughtered if our fleet doesn't pull off a victory overhead."

The image transformed into topographic satellite imagery of varying locations planet side, all of them flicking by after only being displayed for a few seconds. These were all landing zones, and the details of each would be further briefed individually to each Commander as well as the officer in charge of the Marine units landing there.

"You may also be aware of the MSOB teams that have been spread throughout the fleet. There are specialized objectives they have been tasked with… these are mission critical tasks, but cannot be discussed yet. Suffice it to say, support for these teams is important and I ask that you all accommodate them to the best of your abilities.

"When the Marines have touched down planet side several squadrons from yet to be determined Battlestars will be flying close air support around the clock. We fully expect heavily fortified positions and gaining air superiority within our areas of operation will be a priority. To further integrate, and thus create an ease of operation between our ground combat elements and the air assets overhead I want pilots assigned to the Marine units as forward air controllers. This should allow for more precise and effective fixed wing support.

"The Marine's primary mission will be to capture and hold the planet's largest civic centers, and hopefully liberate the majority of the captive population of Aerilon. These cities will act as a base of operation for further missions. The fleet's mission will be to clear the orbital space around Aerilon. Once this has been achieved additional forces will reinforce us while we establish powerful point defenses and land more Marines on the ground in order to conduct follow on operations to clear the Cylons out of the rural parts of the planet.

"This is going to be a long, difficult operation. But I want all of you to focus on the initial stages. Your most important task is the safe delivery of your ground combat elements in addition to your aggressive destruction of the Cylon fleet. I'll be commanding the entirety of this thing from the Battlestar Athena, but we'll have a clear succession of command should something happen to me," the Admiral concluded. The holographic image of the war torn planet these men and women would soon attempt to liberate flickered and then disappeared. Admiral Hawkins shuffled some of the papers on his podium, collecting his thoughts and adjusting his glasses; he looked up at the officers in the room.

"This has never been done before. There are a lot of things we don't know. Fleet Intelligence has been doing everything in their power to gather up whatever they can on the Cylon strengths and troop dispositions, but so far they're coming up pretty empty handed. Our best option is to connect with the resistance elements once we've established ourselves on the ground and utilize whatever intel they can provide.

"We are going to prevail, however, as we've got the spirit and the will to see this thing through. Minimize collateral damage, utilize force multipliers both on the ground and in orbit and let's do everything we can to bring as many of our people back from this as we can," with his final words the Fleet Admiral removed his glasses, folded them and set them onto the podium before him.

"That will be all. Remember, this briefing is classified and has the highest priority of secrecy. Return to your respective stations, there will be more to come as the details develop and individual tasks are assigned. Thank you," the Admiral finished then. The group of officers rose to their feet as he exited, and then followed suit. A clamor erupted within the briefing room as they talked amongst one another for what fleeting seconds they could before returning to their respective duties.

"Quite an ambitious move," Colonel Faulk stated with some amazement. It was going to likely be the largest operation the Colonial forces had ever mounted.

"It is indeed," Commander Nash agreed, rubbing the bridge of his nose along with his war weary eyes. "Maybe too ambitious…"


	6. Return to Duty

**Chapter Six: Return to Duty**

**ARGOS CITY, PICON**

**1030 Hrs.**

**Transport Station**

"Oh, Gods," Dice began, rubbing his temples methodically. "I can't believe we drank that much."

"You're the one that was encouraging it," Banzai put in.

"Yeah, but you guys should know better than to listen to me," Dice complained. His eyes were still bloodshot, and the entire group of them looked like a mess. Although now they were dressed in their service blues uniform, awaiting a transport ship to take them back to Galactica.

"We try not to listen to you, Cortez, but you never shut the frak up," Banzai added.

The group of them lounged around lazily in the waiting area of the transport station which would take them on a civilian ship back into orbit so they could rejoin the crew of the Galactica.

None were very excited about the prospect. After all, life in the fleet could often be boring, especially if you were in port, but not allowed any liberty. There would be training, classes, cleaning, maintenance, refitting, physical training, morning and evening formations, uniform inspections and any other tedious activity the command could stick to them in order to keep them trim and ready for the fight. As if discipline would become an issue if they were allowed some breathing room as far as free time was concerned.

The station was alive with activity, as other men and women in uniform were either coming or going. Those that were heading into Argos were excited at the idea of having some liberty, spending some hard earned cubits, and maybe getting lucky at the bars or casinos that dotted the city.

Those that were returning were far less keen, however, and in them you saw a lack of morale, despite their wondrous vacation in this little gem of a city.

Those that were assembled had been the very same five officers that had endeavored from the Caspian hotel the night before, Lieutenant Toriyama included (despite multiple protests of being dragged to a strip club). The mood was somber and expectations were mixed.

As more and more rumors were flying around regarding the assembly of the fleet over Picon, and the consequent operation such a force would be used for, more speculation arose and the mood of those whom did the speculing varied greatly.

Adama was hopeful, he felt something great coming; as if they were on the eve of an event that history would always remember. That was something he'd be proud to be a part of, making a difference and possibly taking part in the turning point of this war against the Cylons. He'd studied the great battles of the war thus far in the history books, as well as learning of useful and effective tactics utilized by heroes of the Colonies in past battles fought, but he'd never known a great fight. He knew it was foolish to seek a battle like that, every major clash between the Colonial forces and the Cylons had led to massive casualties on the Colonials side, even in battles they had won.

No one was sure why the Cylons were so effective. Their technology, in most cases, was not superior; especially if you put a Raider against a Viper Mk II. Nevertheless, the Cylons were always able to wreak havoc on Colonial fleets in major engagements. It had been theorized that because they were programmed, and so thoroughly familiar with fleet doctrine that they knew every feasible and effective way to counter any tactic that a fleet commander might throw at them.

In the small skirmishes that made up the majority of the conflict, humanity almost always came out on top. But in such cases it was always a fight between a handful of ships, and it led to daring and creative actions on the part of the human commanders. Perhaps in those independent actions it allowed for the Colonials to be free of doctrine and standard operating procedures, whereas fighting within an oversized armada left a lot less room for creativity and imagination.

In flight school and at the weapons training academy the instructors had always drilled it into their nuggets that to seek a fight, especially a big one, was a naïve and foolhardy way to a hasty demise.

Adama never bought into that idea, while he was well aware of the warrants of prudence, risk assessment and careful calculation, he had preferred the school of thought that ascribed to aggression and an almost reckless level of personal initiative. He had hoped these would carve him a name within the ranks of the Colonial fleet, and perhaps he was on his way toward that end. It wasn't that he sought to be a hero, or even to be famous, but he certainly wanted to make his mark. In the end, however, it all came down to destroying as many toasters as possible and winning this Gods damned war.

The lethargic mood of the patient young officers was interrupted suddenly by the loud and boisterous appearance of two of their ilk.

Lieutenants Ward "Chaos" Drexler and Bradley "Havoc" Duke approached their fellow pilots pointing and laughing at their apparent disheveled appearance, earning a scornful eye from more than a handful of irritated service members who's own quiet, hung over reflection was rudely interrupted by the duo.

Drexler and Duke, two men who might as well have been born as one. The pair of them had been born on Canceron, grew up in the same city of Venetia without having ever known each other. However, after joining the fleet academy and attending flight school they quickly became friends. The two were inseparable shortly thereafter, as they shared the same hobbies, personalities, and penchant for trouble and hard liquor. The two had many nick names, the "Bash Brothers", the "Double Ds", the "Double Dragons", and several more obscure ones that didn't see much use.

Despite looking very different from one another, they were often confused. Drexler was tall, just shy of Cunningham in height and had blonde hair, cool blue eyes and sharp distinctive facial features. Conversely, Duke was much shorter with brown hair, wide brown eyes and rounded, softer facial features.

"What's the matter with you lot?" Duke asked with a toothy grin as the pair flopped down beside the group of pilots.

"Too much to drink last night," Toriyama moaned, regretting her decision to embark on a night out with the four boys from Primus squadron.

"Oh, c'mon, Sparrow, there's no such thing as too much to drink!" Drexler told her, flashing his pearly teeth. Toriyama didn't bother replying, as such a response would quickly spark an argument and a lecture by the two on the merits of an abundance of alcohol, and she was certainly in no mood. The thought of another drink was enough to make her lose her lunch at that very moment.

"I'm pretty sad to leave this place, we had a blast," Drexler announced, clueing in his fellow pilots despite the lack of any inquisition on their part. "Drank quite a bit, won some cubits at the casino, too."

"You managed to stay out of trouble?" Banzai glanced over, his eye brow raised in doubt. "That's surprising."

"For the most part we did," Duke interjected. "We did get in a little scuffle with some locals because we got in their face for being whiney ass civilians complaining about the war."

"Complaining about the war?" Cortez asked, still rubbing his temple soothingly.

"Yeah, man. It was complete bullshit, they were talking like how it was ridiculous this fight was still going on, and that it was the military's fault for not destroying a bunch of oversized toasters in the first place. Then they went on and on about how retarded we must all be if a bunch of mindless robots could kick our ass, plus a whole bunch of other stupid crap. I had about enough of it and had some words for 'em, then we got into it," Duke related the story thoughtfully.

"Yeah, but I think they were tourists on break from school here, dude," Drexler broke in.

"Nah, man, those were locals. I know a Picon accent when I hear one," Duke retorted, turning his attention to his friend.

"I heard them talking about Caprica City University, I'm pretty sure they were Caprican," Drexler insisted.

"No way, man!" Duke argued, his voice raising.

"Okay, okay, whatever. Who cares," Drexler caved.

"So, anyways, we whipped their ass. Well, we were whipping their ass but then the cops came. They were really pissed," Duke announced laughingly.

"Why is that?" Cortez asked.

"I punched this girl-cop in the face!" Duke replied without hesitation, as if he'd been concealing this fact with all his power, hoping to relate it to his friends and receive a roaring reply of laughter. The others simply shook their heads.

"Why would you do that?" Banzai asked.

"Because she hit me with her night-stick thing," Duke answered. "Besides, she sprayed me with mace right after I punched her, so I guess I lost in the end. That stuff burns for hours, by the way."

"How are you two not in jail right now?" Cortez asked interestedly.

"Drexler sweet talked us out of it. He's got skills when it comes to that sort of thing," Duke told him.

"Yeah, I remember," Cortez said back, remembering a time well over a year in the past when they had been on shore leave in Caprica. The two had been out in the bars trying to meet women, and had been fortunate enough to hook up with two, albeit slightly older women. Back at their house, however, they were surprised when the woman Dice was with tried to get them to leave, apparently her husband was home early… a man who also happened to be a Colonel in the fleet.

The man was furious, naturally. The two of them hadn't been able to escape successfully, and the manner in which they were caught had led Cortez to believe that this man was suspicious of his wife anyhow and this was a sting he'd launched just to catch her in the act. But all that anger and rage was turned on Cortez, that was until Drexler stepped in and reminded the man they hadn't known the women were married, and at the end of the day shouldn't he have been more mad at his own wife who'd forsaken her commitment, rather than some young, dumb, inexperienced fighter jock? The argument had worked, and the two had shuffled out of the house before anything more could come of it.

"Anyways, we heard all kinds of crazy rumors," Duke continued. "Anybody got any ideas?"

"No," Adama put in.

"Well damn, he speaks," Duke looked over at the azure-eyed pilot.

"Whatever it is, we know it's going to be big. Why else bring all these ships to one spot?" Adama questioned, rhetorically for the most part.

"Offensive," Banzai stated.

"Probably. Man, none of us have seen any big action like that. Last big fight was Oren Island, and none of us were there," Cortez said bluntly. Many others had not even finished their training at the time, Adama included.

"Whatever it is, I want to know, and I want to know soon," Banzai added. The group concurred, but the discussion was paused momentarily as the announcement was made to begin boarding their flight…

**BATTLESTAR GALACTICA**

**1857 Hrs.**

**Galactica Observation Deck**

Space could be a terrifying place. The near vacuum was dark, lonely, and nearly silent at all times. But there may have been no other place in existence where such a sharp contrast existed.

At one moment a person could gaze out into the emptiness, a seemingly unending vastness of sheer darkness where one's imagination could run wild with all manner of horrors. A broken seal leading to a violent evacuation of interior atmosphere, your ship's engines going nuclear due to coolant issues, being stranded in that vast emptiness; left to whatever demise befalls you, or even the unlikely but often publicized (fictionally) idea of an outcast group of humans that are bloodthirsty, cannibalistic and hell-bent on revenge against the colonies that scorned them. Such were the ideas that could spring from one's own imagination while gazing into the black void.

But then there were the colors, the endless swirling spires of multiple gases, clouds, dust and plasma that coalesced with one another to create vibrant and beautiful scenes that left nothing for the imagination. What person could possibly define such a vivid and intense depiction of total beauty? The answer was simply no one. The shapes and colors were inconceivable, beyond human grasp, and yet there they were… so easy to recognize. All of them had names, they had been labeled but all were a mystery. Science had explained them, educated the populace on how such things as nebulas or quasars had come to be, but these sights were so far in the distance, far beyond the red line. Despite the fact that they felt close enough to reach out and touch, and so one could always wonder just what really transpired within those cosmic occurrences and speculate on whether they were in fact ever reachable.

Man had carried himself to the stars behind the thoughtful ambitions of geniuses. Men who gazed up at the heavens and sought the splendor and beauty miles beyond the surface of their worlds. At their own great risk and through diligent research and development they had attained what they dreamed.

Lieutenant Alexandra Oliveira contemplated these things in her own mind, as she gazed out of the wide, thick observation glass at the stem of the ship. It was something she did often. She came to this place to look out into space and revel in it's glory, but she respected it for it's darkness, it's silent foreboding nature which had claimed tens of thousands of lives in the past.

It was the only place she could view the spectacle, despite living and working on a vessel that traveled the stars; she very rarely saw them with her own eyes. She was not a pilot, and actually found the idea of blasting out of a launch tube in a small cockpit strapped to three giant rockets rather intimidating and disconcerting. Space was incredibly vast, it dwarfed the Galactica, it dwarfed the fleet, it even dwarfed the planets and the galaxy they existed within. How insignificant something like a Viper was, and how brave those pilots were to venture out into it.

She sighed as the beauty seeped in. Her view was obstructed occasionally by passing ships, and in the distance she could see dozens of fighters that flew the combat air patrol in order to protect this mighty force that had assembled over Picon.

In her hands she clutched her camera, and she had made an attempt to take photos of the distant nebulas she could see from her position. But she was unsuccessful, at least so far, as the window seemed to prevent her from taking a good, detailed photograph of decent quality.

She aimed in once more, and attempted for a final time to take a shot. Her flash went off, filling the empty room with it's bright white light. She glanced down to see the product of her work, but sighed heavily as it was another poor example of her amateur skills.

"Turning the flash off might help," a voice told her suddenly. A familiar face appeared beside her, clad in service blues and wearing the rank of Captain.

"I tried already, that didn't work either. I don't know what the problem is but it's really frustrating," she complained, however maintained a smile.

"It's pretty amazing, huh?" Captain Hilarion asked, obviously noticing her fascination with the convoluted spirals of light and colors so far off in the void.

"Yeah…" she responded, there was silence as the two continued to gaze outward. "You think there's any other intelligent life out there?" she asked after a few moments.

Hilarion glanced over at her with pursed lips, his hands clasped in his lower back. "Besides the Cylons?" he smirked. "I hope not."

"Why not?" she questioned, surprised by his answer.

"We've got our hands full with the toasters, we don't need to worry about another enemy to fight," he observed casually.

"Fight? How do you know that if there was life out there it would want to fight us?" she probed.

"It might not want to fight us, but we'd end up fighting it," Hilarion mused, returning his view to the splendid sight outside the confines of the hulking Battlestar.

"You think so?"

"Of course, it's human nature," he said dryly. "We make war wherever we go, on whomever we meet. There's nothing more true about humans than that. Nothing is more natural, not art, not poetry, not writing, not even creating life… war trumps it all."

"How can you say that? It trumps creating life? I don't get it," Oliveira said, clearly confused by the final point Hilarion tried to make.

"Yeah, look at the first 'life' mankind created. The Cylons, machines built mainly for war. Now look at us, fighting for our survival against the very life we created…" he trailed off for a moment. "Sucks, huh?"

Silence returned to the observation deck and this time it lasted for an extended few minutes before Captain Hilarion spoke once again.

"So listen, I came down here to thank you for what you did down on Picon for me. I really appreciate it and probably don't deserve it," he offered with some degree of embarrassment. He had acted like an ass during his stay on the planet, hardly befitting of an officer.

"It's not a problem, sir," she told him sincerely. "You're going through a rough patch, I understand… I mean, I don't understand but I get it, I mean, well you know what I mean?" Oliveira continued bashfully.

"Yeah I get what you mean," he chuckled in reply. "Look, you don't need to call me 'sir' either, okay? We're friends, so you can call me Achilles, or even Alex, I don't care," he informed her.

"Are you sure?" she questioned.

"Sure I'm sure," he shot back hastily. "It's tough on me with the squadron, you know? It's not fun at the top, I have to stay impartial and unbiased so I can't exactly hang with the pilots that much, and I certainly can't talk about my problems with them."

"Why not?"

"Because, it exposes my weaknesses. It lets them know I'm human after all, and then they might start worrying that I don't have my head in the game the next time we're out there in the shit. It'd be like 'Oh damn, Achilles wife just dumped him, do I want him ridin' my six right now?' Or even worse, they might question a command out there because they think I've lost my edge or something. Get it?" he asked seriously.

"Yeah," she nodded, understanding him, but not agreeing. She felt as though he was over blowing the reaction the pilots might have over a perceived weakness in their squadron commander. Of course she couldn't be sure of that. They were all in the military in the end, but every unit and every job worked and interacted with one another very differently. "Well if you ever need to talk to me about something, Captain, I'm all ears," she offered up. "Alex," she corrected herself.

"Thank you, I appreciate that," he told her. "The same goes for you, anytime you need a pal," he clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Don't hesitate to call." With his final words the two parted ways, Alexandra happy to help the man during his troubled period, and Hilarion happy to receive that help. He exited the observation deck, leaving the young tactical officer to her continued viewing of the space outside their great Battlestar.

**GALACTICA DECK A, FRAME TWO**

**0730 Hrs.**

Sweat gathered across Lieutenant Adama's forehead, collecting there for several moments before enough had gathered; then it trickled down the side of his moistened face.

He exhaled heavily through his nostrils as he exerted himself on a morning run through the ship, something he rather disliked, but also something that was very necessary.

As a man in uniform, and even more as an officer he was required to stay in peak physical condition. It was not only to present an image of the consummate professional; strong in mind, body and spirit, but also to set an example for those he may lead sometime in the future.

He loved the gym, he loved to exercise, but running was something he absolutely couldn't stand. He could hang around the weight room throwing around the weights for an hour or an hour and a half, but when it came to cardio work he always dreaded it.

Boxing had always been a past time that he enjoyed and excelled at. It was something he'd learned in order to defend himself in his younger years, as he was often picked on. Now he did it as a supplement to these bland runs through the deck of the Galactica. It wasn't that he was a bad runner, it was just such a boring event for him, even if it only took a half hour and he was listening to music the entire time.

Crew members made a hole for him as he jaunted by, doing their best to avoid his progress, or perhaps his sweaty tank-top clad body. The enlisted didn't bother rendering a salute, he passed them to speedily and most of the officers that ran their routes throughout the Galactica didn't expect it.

Thoughts rolled over in Adama's head as he tried anything to keep his mind off the pain he began to feel in his calves. He could feel them tightening as the muscles burned to propel him further. He was nearly three a and a half miles into his usual five, but at the moment he felt he'd not be able to push himself any further than four.

Just as he rounded the first corner in frame two on deck alpha he came to an abrupt halt. Had he not done so he may have collided with Commander Nash and a Specialist that was detailing and finalizing some paperwork on several service request forms that had been submitted in order to fix the electrical problems in the community heads nearby.

"Good morning, sir," Adama greeted politely, giving the aged warrior a nod.

"Lieutenant Adama, what'dya hear?" he questioned in his usual manner, looking up from the pages of stapled paperwork.

"Nothing but the rain, sir," Adama replied uneasily, presenting an uncomfortable smile to the Commander, whose greeting was lost on the young pilot.

"Well grab your gun and bring in the cat," Nash responded, glancing back down at his paperwork and pushing past Husker along with the Specialist, who customarily saluted the officer.

"Will do, sir," Adama said back with a raised brow and a curious look on his face.

He barely knew his commanding officer, at least not on a face to face sort of level. Instead he knew only what was said about the man and what he could gather from the way he had led this ship through nearly a decade of fighting.

Nash was constantly talked about at the Basic School, flight school, and through the Fleet Fighter Weapons school. His tactics and leadership had been instrumental throughout the war, most especially during the early years. A handful of his actions were taught as text book examples of fleet on fleet action.

The fleet and the people of the newly unified twelve colonies had rallied around pillars of strength and hope; Nash had been one of those pillars. He and the original Commander's selected to command humanity's new dreadnoughts, the Battlestars, were the pinnacle of military professionalism, astute tactical knowledge and judgment.

It was, however, rather perplexing that he'd not advanced beyond a rank granted him more than ten years prior. Most men spent anywhere from four to five years as a Commander, depending on their accolades and a decent fitness report. His peers had either advanced to become Admirals, or hold important billets at Fleet Headquarters and the Admiralty, or had retired. Others had perished in battle, of course, but Nash was the only remaining man that was in the exact same position granted to him so many years ago, despite his heroism and success in the past.

It had been rumored that he was particularly vocal in those early years about his distaste for the current government, a fledgling organization in it's own right, attempting to make sense of the chaos that followed the surprise Cylon uprising. Perhaps Nash felt he was right in his words, tearing down the newly elected President, and the Quorum of Twelve, or maybe he even assumed he was safe in his career track, having been granted the honor of commanding humanity's new line of ships that were hailed as Cylon destroyers and war winners. Yet ten years later he languished still aboard the Galactica, his edge continuing to dull and the fatigue that war brought beginning to set in.

To Adama it was amazing the man had withstood the punishment he'd endured so far, losing hundreds under his command, leaping from one great battle to the next, all the while fighting skirmishes here and there in between; any one of which could have led to his demise, as the death of Commander Corban of the Columbia had proved.

Adama had always wondered if he'd truly had what it would take to someday lead the men and women of such a fearsome Battlestar. He had his entire life ahead of him, and he saw the military as being a big part of that life. Despite his aspirations to lead and advance through the military he was still unsure on whether or not he would pursue such a career.

There were some things that irritated him about the military. The rigidity and obedience to orders could, at times, be a serious nuisance, despite necessity. Adama had initially resisted being controlled by superiors to the best extent possible, but he had learned early on that such a fight was like a fish swimming against the current; ultimately hopeless.

But he took a great deal of pride in wearing the uniform (despite a great distaste for ceremony). He reveled in the opportunities it afforded him; who else had the opportunity to do what he was doing in a Viper? He cherished the friends and comrades he'd met along the way, who were now more like family than mere friends, and he'd matured beyond any level he would've imagined. This was never more evident than when he saw his civilian counterparts, and the manner in which they behaved. It was staggering, despite he and his friends own penchant for mayhem and good old fashioned 'fun'.

To make a career would mean to advance, however, and he knew if he had ever found himself in Nash's position he would consider hanging up the towel. Ten years at the same rank seemed impossible. Of course, commanding a Battlestar would be an incredible feeling, especially one as magnificent as the Galactica. That seemed like a pipe dream, however, and telling his comrades of such aspirations would probably earn him some extensive teasing. Bill Adama a Battlestar commander? Yeah right.

**GALACTICA**

**1014 Hrs.**

**Visitors Quarters**

The emblem of the 1st Marine Special Operations Battalion was that of a round hoplon shield, meant to represent the shield of Athena. Emblazoned upon that shield was the simple numeral I. A stylized spear (also belonging to Athena) crossed the foreground of the shield. It was aged, nearly splintered and battle hardened. At the tip of the spear streamers were illustrated, these were honors that the 1st MSOB had achieved in battle. It was customary for all Marine combat units to mount their unit guidon on the tip of a spear representative of Athena, this symbol was to exemplify the real life guidon and spear point that belonged to 1st MSOB.

Below this 'coat of arms' the words "Loyal and Steadfast" were etched in plain text. Such was the credo that the 1st lived by.

The Marines of 1st and 2nd Marine Special Operation Battalion were hand picked and had to undergo a rigorous and extensive training package that ran the full gamut of possible combat operations. From jungle warfare, desert survival, and arctic tracking to military operations in urban terrain and external weightless combat maneuvering, also known as fighting out in space, which was uncommon but sometimes useful for getting into a ship that was thought to be well defended. They used this technique to enter repair hatches and other inconspicuous locations, rather than through the soft seal they'd be expecting. This was uncommon and extremely dangerous.

The Colonial Marine Corps was a community of warriors, with a strong ethos and code that focused on a history of warfare. It constantly compared itself to the soldiers who had fought wars on each of the Twelve Colonies respectively throughout the ages. Calling upon the greatest of those warriors, and claiming to be descendent of that same ethos and pride.

But within a community of over 400,000 that were many types of Marines. Logistics, engineers, artillery, armored assault vehicles, and of course the grunts, or rifleman. But within that community existed the tiniest percentage, the elite within the elite. They were MSOB, and they totaled only less than 2,500. No one knew the exact number, such information was classified. The MSOB Marines were what all other Marines would gain confidence from, compare themselves to, be jealous of, and compete with. They were the enigmatic 'super' soldiers and that seemed more rare and then even the most talked about mythological creature. When you saw one walking about on base, it was something you told your fellow Marines. Such was the mystique that surrounded these men and women.

Each of them were specialists in one particular skill set, and that was killing. But among them they held billets that made them focus on a particular facet of completing that mission. There was a scout/sniper, a demolitions and heavy weapons expert, a communications specialist, a Corpsman (medic), a point-man for navigation, and two automatic gunners. Each and every member of the team was cross-trained to do the others job, but some were more skilled at certain things than others. Regardless, they were all exemplary operators in peak physical condition, well versed in the ways of war and wholly dedicated to the completion of the mission.

Captain Shepard led the team and was well respected for his willingness to listen to subordinates, in addition to his extensive service record fighting the Cylons. He was pragmatic and serious at all times, the consummate Marine and a poster boy for the Colonial Marine Corps. He was a rising star, sure to achieve the rank of General someday.

Despite being brave, he rarely acted out of emotion or for the want to achieve medals or awards. He was well known within the special operations community, a man that pioneered techniques for outwitting and outmaneuvering Cylons.

Gunnery Sergeant Clay was his Senior Non-Commissioned Officer. He was rugged and tough, loved the Corps deep down to his bones and had spent the majority of his career as a straight-legged grunt.

He was a disciplinarian, if that was one word to best describe him that was it. While he was also known for his tactical knowledge, something he spouted on and on about during 'chalk-talk' with great excitement, it was as an enforcer of rules that he was best known.

MSOB units generally enjoyed a wider berth when it came to simple Marine regulations, such as cutting their hair, shaving everyday, or wearing their uniform properly. Gunny Clay ensured his men didn't enjoy that wide berth at any time.

In addition to that he was thought to be impossible to kill. He seemed to survive some of the most absurd situations, and he'd never been wounded despite being in the midst of some engagements described by others as 'charnel houses'. The men often joked that Gunny Clay could never die, at least not until the Cylons had been beaten.

A collection of the Marines sat around their bunks, cleaning stripped down service rifles and pistols. Weapons maintenance was constant, as Gunny Clay always liked to remind them, despite the fact that the weapons were spotless.

"I think I've scraped off the top layer of this bolt-- I've hit it so many times with this brush," Specialist Marek Straka, a lanky Corpsman with shaggy brown hair stated lightheartedly. No matter how much Gunny Clay pressured him to cut his hair, he was a fleet member rather than a Marine, and thus not subject to the same regulations.

"Yup, I lick mine regularly just to ensure it's clean enough to eat off… I mean, if you could eat off a rifle bolt anyways," Sergeant Ward Costigan replied in jest. Costigan was of average height and his build was unassuming at best. He hid his strength very well beneath his black fatigues. His gray eyes were soft and went well with his sandy brown hair.

"This room is nasty, you think they could put us up in a better place," Corporal Summer Leclair complained, as she scrubbed the upper receiver of her M25 .308 rifle. Summer was slight in size, with long brown hair and big doe-like eyes to match. Despite her diminutive and feminine nature she was well known as a crack shot, capable of hitting a man sized target at well over 1500 meters. Her small silhouette made it difficult to locate her, and even easier for her to get into some of the most unassuming hides on the battlefield. She was a member of the Colonial Marine shooting team before passing the Special Operations indoctrination exam and consequently going through the necessary training to become an MSOB Marine. Many of the team members often joked that if they didn't know any better and had met her in a bar somewhere they'd have thought she was just another girl ripe for the pickings, as she clearly didn't resemble any Marine they knew. But none could deny her steady aim and careful trigger pull, which got consistent results.

"It's fine. You complain a lot about nasty rooms, but don't you think it's a lot better than some grunt grave out in the field?" Sgt Costigan questioned, referring to the holes that Marine rifleman (grunts) dug when settling into a defensive position to sleep in for the night. This was often different than their fighting holes and meant solely to sleep in and shelter them from possible enemy shelling.

"Well excuse me for wanting something a little upscale, I'm pretty sure we rate it," she shot back, setting down the upper receiver of her rifle and picking up the lower counterpart. She began cleaning the trigger assembly within the receiver.

"A bed is a bed," Corporal Link Jaeger asserted. A quick glance at this Marine, the point-man, and you would think he was more likely the member of a rock band than a serviceman. His hair was kept tight on the sides and trimmed very high, fashioned into a stylized short Mohawk at the top. It was against regulations, but it was one of the few regulations Gunny let slide. He also managed to go without shaving every now and again, as Gunny Clay rarely chided him to shave. However, he never pushed his luck too far. Link was a strong willed and often quiet Marine, rarely speaking and never complaining. He seemed to be fearless and possible even ruthless, as he didn't seem to have any compassion when it came to collateral damage or civilian casualties.

"Easy for you to say," Cpl Leclair retorted.

Jaeger's cold eyes examined Leclair expecting her to go on.

"Well, you were born in a swamp and raised in a barn; so I'm pretty sure you don't even know what an amenity is," she commented with a grin. The other Marines chuckled at the comment, Jaeger showed no reaction merely shook his head and continued to clean his weapon.

"Any word on which one of these fly-boys is going to be our forward air controller?" Straka asked with interest. He opted to stop the laborious act of cleaning, setting his weapon down and leaning back against his rack, yearning for sleep despite having just woke up a few hours prior. He hoped the question would distract the others as well, and that they'd all stop cleaning and perhaps go and get some chow on the mess deck.

"Yeah, some new guy, I guess," Costigan told the Corpsman.

"New guy?" Straka replied with curiosity.

"Yup. I mean, he's a pilot, but I guess he hasn't been around much," Costigan explained.

"That's seems kind of dumb, wouldn't it be better to have an experienced Viper jock with us?" Cpl Leclair stated.

"Not too many of those left anymore," Costigan informed them. "Besides, Captain Shepard left it up to Commander Nash to decide. He gave him an idea of what he wanted and left it up to him, so we should trust his judgment."

"Why? He's a washed up old cripple," Leclair stated as a matter of fact.

"Okay, c'mon, he was wounded in combat," Costigan defended the Galactica's Commander, being fully aware of the man's career accomplishments. "Plus he's a damn hero to the fleet."

"Yeah well, I don't believe most of that shit. If he was so frakkin' great he wouldn't be a Commander for so damn long would he?" Leclair shot back, completing the cleaning of her trigger housing group and assembly.

"You know there's a shit ton of bureaucracy at that level, Summer. You get up that high and you become more of a politician than a soldier," Costigan referred to the common trait where most officers attempting to reach Admiral became more about appeasing the government or higher ups at the Admiralty all in an attempt gain favor and climb the ladder. It was even common amongst the more senior Staff NCOs. "I'd say he's probably still a Commander because he's not afraid to raise the bullshit flag, and he takes care of his people. Not something the Admiralty likes."

"Yeah right. I don't believe that. Whatever, it doesn't matter, I just want to get this mission done and over with. If I'm going to live like an animal I might as well be doing it on Aerilon rather than this damn space bucket," Leclair grumbled. She reassembled her rifle deftly, then performed a function check to be sure it was put together properly and was not missing any pieces, as if such a thing was even possible, she thought with an inward grin…


	7. Dark Expectations

**Chapter Seven: Dark Expectations**

**GALACTICA**

**1436 Hrs.**

**Starboard Landing Pod**

"Galactica, this is Raptor 117, all boards are green. Requesting permission to launch," Lieutenant Jaycie McGavin spoke in her wireless.

Her ECO, Lieutenant Toriyama, exhaled as she sat uneasily in the back cabin of the Raptor, an all purpose air craft utilized primarily for electronic counter-measures, communications, and it's DRADIS suite which was vital for guiding Viper's into combat. The Raptor was extremely useful for reconnaissance as well, jumping into distant systems, performing sensor sweeps, and ascertaining the disposition and strength of the enemy. All the while the small ship's FTL drive remains spun up, in order for the crew to perform a hasty and often necessary jump back to safety.

McGavin and Toriyama had enough flights under their belts to be considered veterans by all accounts. They had flown dozens of recon hops and while some were a bit more sticky than others, they'd always completed their mission objectives, and had never worried before hand.

But this mission was a different story, one that the duo immediately realized was different than any they had previously flown. This started when the mission briefing and tasked had been assigned and detailed to them by Commander Nash himself, with only the XO present.

They'd been sworn to secrecy regarding the mission and only two other Raptors would be joining them for the flight. One from the Nemesis and another from the Columbia.

"Copy that, Raptor 117, you're cleared for launch. Good luck and Gods' speed," Petty Officer Cameron, Galactica's communications officer, responded. Cameron was ignorant of the details of Raptor 117's mission, but she knew not to ask questions regarding such 'black flights'. Certainly she'd learn about it in due time, but she was always curious despite that.

"Good to go, Galactica, Raptor 117, out," McGavin said plainly, trying to mask the intense apprehension that had her heart beating away rapidly in her chest.

The Raptor lifted up from it's position on the starboard landing pod's deck, the engines came to life and the vessel gracefully glided free from the hangar pod.

"Looks like the other two are already formed up and waiting for us," Toriyama alerted her pilot, noticing their mission counterparts were already flying in a loose formation together not far from the Galactica's port side.

"Let's not keep them waiting," McGavin decided aloud.

Their Raptor banked hard and effortlessly rocketed over the Galactica, heading in a direction perpendicular to that of the Galactica. It only took a couple of minutes for McGavin to take up a position along with the other two Raptors.

"Raptor 117, this is Weasel, ready for the fun to start?" a voice crackled into her wireless.

"That's an affirmative, Weasel. We're ready when you are," she feigned enthusiasm. She wondered if the others were as nervous as she felt. Certainly Toriyama felt as nervous about the hop as she did, as they had quietly discussed it after leaving Commander's Nash's quarters. They hadn't had much time to ruminate on the idea, however, as they were only briefed moments before they'd be slated to launch. All in favor of secrecy, no doubt.

"Copy that, FTL jump in three minutes. Once we jump in break formation but run silent. It may take some time to reach your designated position, but it's better than being detected," Weasel told her, reiterating the scheme of maneuver that Commander Nash had briefed them on previously.

Jaycie leaned as far back in her seat as it would allow, exhaling deeply as she quietly watched the countdown for the FTL jump tick away. She said nothing, no words between her and Toriyama. They were both professionals; they knew what was expected of them and what they would have to do. The Fleet was asking quite a lot of them, gathering intelligence on a place that was supposedly crawling with toasters was not a relishing thought.

Perhaps she could look at it as a compliment. The fact that Commander Nash had chosen her and Sparrow to conduct this operation, the success of which was vital to whatever was planned for later, showed that their commanding officer had an immense amount of faith in the two. That was comforting, but it only went so far. Cheery thoughts relating to their professional aptitude wouldn't stop rounds from a pair of kinetic energy weapons.

In a bright flash the trio of Colonial Raptors were gone. Soon they'd arrive nearby Aerilon to carry out their mission.

**GALACTICA**

**1440 Hrs.**

**Officer's Head**

Creases and a slight shade of darkening skin seemed to be appearing below Lieutenant Shaw's eyes. She studied her reflection in one of the mirrors in the Officer's Head. She was wearing her flight suit, stripped to the waist and clad in the formfitting black undershirt.

She felt haggard and looked even worse. Sleep had not been easy lately. Slumber never found her without effort, but within the last few days it seemed to be far more difficult to attain. She'd enjoyed her time on Picon, for once it was as if she was another person and she'd forgotten all the woes that she invisibly carried with her as she trekked the halls of the Battlestar Galactica.

In those short hours in Argos City she had forgotten about the war, forgotten about the bloodshed and all of the pain that it had caused her. Instead she focused on those hours and enjoyed them to their fullest. Aside from her nasty run-in with Cunningham, things had been good. She could relaxed with Shauna, and they enjoyed each other's company and understood it for what it was. Two people joining together in what little respite they could get. They parted ways easily enough, each making a mark on the other, but neither regretting their separation. It was a fling, nothing more and exactly what Voodoo sought after the two most important people in her life had been torn from her.

But now she was back aboard the Galactica. A place she hated more than anything. The sullen gray halls were not silent, as one traversed the long stretches of steel footsteps were heard. But among those footsteps Voodoo believed she could hear the prayers, hopes, and screams of those who had died aboard Galactica. She was most especially haunted by those whom she had known. As she attempted to sleep their voices became more clear to her.

She never wanted to be a pilot. She had a happy life, despite the war, but she was compelled to this. Hatred and sorrow had pushed her to seek out a lifestyle that she was neither cut out for nor wished to be a part of.

But as the war had raged on and as days turned to weeks, and weeks into months she realized she had a talent for flying. Heartache surrounded her, however, as she never forgot her motivation for being there. That pain never left her and in the worst kind of way new pains were accumulated as friends and comrades were killed too. Despite her popularity and the good people she met and served with, she could not shake the feeling of eternal loneliness.

_No one could ever replace them… _

She made her way across the deck and yanked open her locker. It was barren, nothing but several pressed service uniforms and another flight suit. Her undershirts were nicely folded, she had learned that skill long before the military and it was something she'd been teased about in the past.

The locker door closed with an irritating creak and she turned to see Lieutenant Cunningham standing behind her. It was rather unsettling that he had been able to approach so quietly, and avoid her detection. She had, however, been rather preoccupied with her thoughts.

"Good morning," he opened bluntly, his voice was void of any of the scathing emotion she had encountered in Argos. He was wholly different now, his confidence having returned to him. She was rather surprised that he'd even bothered talking to her at all, considering their first few days back from liberty the crew saw a rather quiet Cunningham.

"Morning," she replied uneasily, shifting her weight as her pupils darted around in the locker room to see if there was anyone else around. It was only the two of them, and she was slightly unnerved.

"We need to talk," he continued, stepping forward. He may not have intended it, but his steps carried an ominous weight behind them. Perhaps it was his hulking size, despite how gentle she knew him to be.

"There's nothing to talk about, Adrian," she told him meekly, brushing a lone ringlet of brown hair from her fatigued visage.

He halted before her again and was quiet. He seemed to be thinking of what he would say next. Haley offered nothing in return, despite an increasing urge to speed this encounter along.

Without saying another word he began to approach her once more. The portentous thud of his boots each step he took caused her to step back. He leveled his eyes upon his target and continued to advance undeterred by her backpedaling. Like a true soldier with his sights set on the objective, determined to carry out whatever mission he'd been assigned.

Haley's retreat was halted as her back came in contact with the wall locker; she could go no further.

Cunningham didn't stop until he was just in front of her, invading her personal space. His bulky arms raised up, blocking her in as he pressed flat palms against the wall locker.

She looked at him helplessly, part of her wishing to escape and evade Cunningham as if he were a Cylon, and she a downed pilot attempting to avoid capture. Yet the other half was compelled to stay put, for she was intrigued by this tactic and she missed the interlude they had enjoyed. He had been a good lover… perhaps lover was not the correct word. In any event, she was throttled by his sudden and brazen advance.

"What do you want?" she questioned in an uncharacteristically timid fashion.

"You," he said as if there was no alternative answer. He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers, kissing her deeply as one hand lowered from the wall locker, his fingers gently caressing the side of her face.

Initially she wanted to resist, but his talent was quick to reveal itself once more. He knew exactly how to touch her; she could feel the light graze as his fingertips ran from her jaw down upon her neck. He wrapped his fingers around her throat, but gently, only exerting the slightest of pressure so that she could feel it, realize his power and yet know it would not be turned upon her. He released his slight grip and his thumb traced along her collarbone. He stepped forward, forcing his foot between her legs and pressing his thigh between her own.

Her face was flush and she could feel the increasing pressure between her legs. She was kissing him back now, as fully and as ardently as she had ever done. Her hands wrapped around his head and she playfully scratched away, running her fingers through his thick hair.

Then, as if he had said something offensive she stopped. She tore her hands from his head and slammed them against his chest, pushing him away with surprising force.

"Gods damn you, Adrian," she cursed. "I'm not frakking doing this," she lashed out at him. She stormed past him, yanking her flight suit up so that she was fully concealed behind it's protective material.

She blasted out of the room, the door swinging violently shut as she did. Cunningham stood motionless. He'd tried a new tactic, it had failed. What else could he do? He wanted nothing more than to continue what they had, maybe just see where it would lead. He couldn't wash his hands of her, no matter how hard he had tried.

"Frak."

**AERILON**

**1444 Hrs.**

**Recon Flight**

"Keep your system powered down. Initial thrust upon entry into the system should provide us enough inertia to reach out surveillance locations. Maintain radio silence at all times and be sure to collect any signals intelligence you can," Weasel announced quietly over the wireless, as he'd be overheard by the Cylons for speaking too loud.

The Raptor's cabin lights were powered down and McGavin's solitary bird coasted silently across the expansive space surrounding the agricultural planet, Aerilon.

The entirety of the area was littered with debris, as the token fleet that had been posted to defend Aerilon was completely obliterated during the Cylon's invasion.

"Lords, I've never seen so many DRADIS contacts at once," Toriyama informed her pilot in an alarming tone. "There are dozens and dozens of them."

Finally, the Raptor reached it's designated location and McGavin utilized her RCS thrusters to keep them in place. Such quick bursts wouldn't give away their position. Spotting something as small as the Raptor at such a distance was nearly impossible to do. Even if you had incredibly well developed robot-eyes.

"Beginning full sensor sweep now," Toriyama announced. She punched a few commands into her console. "It's going to take some time for me to sort through all this jamming. I'm getting tons of electronic interference."

"Just get the most accurate shot you can. Commander Nash said it was important that we were as detailed as humanly possible," McGavin insisted.

"You think the Fleet is preparing to attack? Like… maybe they are going to try and liberate Aerilon," Toriyama stated, hardly believing such an idea despite bringing it up.

"I don't know, but it would make sense considering how many ships have been assembled," McGavin speculated.

"If you ask me that won't be enough. If what I'm picking up right now is any indication of the strength the Cylons have assembled here there is no way they'll attack. Not to mention this is on what I'm picking up, wait till reports from the far-side of the planet show up from Weasel," Toriyama mentioned as she continued to sort through the interference. To her dismay the picture painted by DRADIS was hardly changing and the extremely large number of enemies seemed to barely diminish.

McGavin eased back in her seat once more, closing her eyes and picturing her quiet time spent on Picon, in the wondrous paradise that was Argos City.

That brought a disturbing question to her mind. Exactly how could she quantify the relationship that her and Adama were building? Early on she had wanted fun, and that was it. However, lately she'd been experiencing serious emotions towards him. She wanted to impress him, wanted him to miss her presence and think about her, practically wished he would chase her in the manner that Cunningham had chased Voodoo.

Yet that would not happen, it was forbidden to happen and perhaps Adama didn't even want it to happen. He had made a casual reference to it while they were at Helena beach, she promptly shot down any idea of it, which he didn't seem bothered by. Perhaps it was just casual fun for him as well.

She hadn't dated much since she began her commission within the fleet. There was never time for it and there certainly weren't many worthy candidates. Her attention was constantly sought out by other service members, from enlisted to officers and even a couple of Admirals. But Adama had given her no attention, save for the sideways glance here and there, when she would catch him trying to steal a glimpse. He never made his intentions clear, nor was he overt with his interest which she found fascinating with all things considered.

Perhaps it was all a ruse on his part-- reverse psychology? No, she couldn't credit him enough with being that wily. She had made the first move and in his befuddled, half-drunken state he responded as any man would. Now what? Did he only maintain what they had because it meant he had a 'regular' girl. Someone he could call upon whenever he felt the urge. She hoped not, but how wrong it was for such hopes when she had fully intended to use him as such.

"Jaycie!" Toriyama interrupted her pilot's thoughts. "I've got all the information I can get. Let's get the frak out of here before we are spotted."

"Okay, okay," Jaycie replied. She was surprised, she'd mulling over the same thoughts for the better part of an hour. How was that possible? Either way it was good things had gone quickly.

"Weasel this is Raptor 117, we've gathered what we can," McGavin reported into the flight leader of this reconnaissance mission.

"Roger that, we'll be done in a few minutes and Raptor 805 has completed their recon as well. Stand bye," he responded calmly.

A few minutes turned into ten, then ten minutes turned into thirty and McGavin and Toriyama began to get impatient.

"Weasel, this is Raptor 117, what's your status?" McGavin keyed into her wireless. "Raptor 805, do you have a visual on Weasel's bird?" There was several moments of silence over the communications channel.

"Raptor 805, come in," McGavin pressed, tension rising in her voice.

"This is 805, I… I think I see him. Wait, what the frak is he doing?" the other Raptor pilot broke the silence with a puzzled tone.

"What do you see?" McGavin broke in.

"He's… he's gliding in for a closer look," Raptor 805 reported incredulously.

"Are you frakking kidding me? This guy is some kind of asshole!" Toriyama declared vehemently.

Another ten minutes ebbed by, this time it flowed much more slowly; it felt as though an hour or more had passed. McGavin continually checked her cockpit's clock and fretted over the silence on the wireless. She was afraid to make anymore unnecessary chatter, less the Cylon's somehow pick up on it and they are discovered.

"This is Weasel, I got what I wanted, we're good to go," Weasel's voice suddenly scratched in over the wireless.

"Frak you, man. What was that shit? You're trying to take some last minute peek to get a commendation or something?" McGavin demanded angrily.

"Take it easy, Lieutenant. Everything went swimmingly. I scooted in there no problem. Why do you think they call me Weasel?" he asked jokingly.

"Because you're a prick," she responded sardonically.

The trio rendezvoused at their designated rally point, this took additional time as they utilized only RCS thrusters in order to maneuver to that location. Now, however, they were all assembled. FTL drives were spooled up, power brought back to full, and with a flashing wink they were as gone as quickly as they had arrived.

**BATTLESTAR GALACTICA**

**2230 Hrs.**

**Commander's Quarters**

"Thank you for coming, Major," Commander Nash welcomed his CAG, Major Gates, as the seasoned Viper pilot entered. "I'm sorry to call on you so late in the evening."

"It's not a problem, sir. I put myself on the midnight CAP, anyways. I have to be awake," the Major waved off the apology as it was unnecessary.

"Take a seat," the Commander motioned to the chair beside the XO and directly across from himself.

Gates obliged the offer and immediately noticed a manila folder marked with a familiar stamp in red ink. It read "Classified" and "Top Secret" in large block letters.

"Have a look," Commander Nash insisted.

The Major slid the folder over and opened the thick cover. Within the folder were a dozen or so papers. Gates immediately recognized them as an intelligence report, a recon flight must've flown an operation, run some scans, and then submitted their findings to intelligence analysts who then put this dossier together.

"What am I looking at, sir?" Gates asked, before continuing to read.

"That… that is an approximate assessment of the Cylon's overall position, strength and disposition in orbit over Aerilon," the Commander said easily, despite his words carrying great connotation along with them.

"And why am I looking at them?" Major Gates questioned, half-rhetorically, as he likely knew the answer.

"Because the Admiralty is planning to liberate Aerilon, Major," Commander Nash told him seriously. The CAG looked up at his commanding officer, the older man now looked at Gates gravelly, fully aware of what such an operation meant.

Gates let out a deep breath as the words sunk in. Liberate Aerilon? An attack large enough to invade and liberate an entire world? Nothing of the sort had even been done. Even when there were wars between the Colonies, no one had ever been able to fully establish supremacy off their own world. It was simply too difficult, a logistical nightmare. Certainly, some Colonies had gained hegemony over others, imposing their will on one of their lesser neighbors, but regardless of that, said Colony still exercised a great deal of autonomy.

In addition, that had only been possible because the civilian leadership had surrendered in order to avoid more violence and destruction, or for personal gain. There were always grassroots resistance movements. But the Cylons wouldn't just give up. There would be no peace settlement signed conceding certain political rights, no surrendered resources, or economic benefits. They would fight to the last.

He sifted through the intelligence reports. The more he read, the more he disliked the idea-- shocking considering his lack of support to begin with. "Sir, they've got an incredibly strong force orbiting Aerilon," he muttered.

"I'm aware of that, Major," the Commander assured him.

"And there's nothing in this report regarding troop strength planet-side," Gates added.

"Indeed," the Commander eased out of his chair and, utilizing his cane, he limped over to a crystal decanter placed on a shelf nearby the table. He poured himself a glass of bourbon and sipped at it sparingly.

"So, the Admiralty is going to run more recon flights before this, right? Gather more intelligence?" Gates asked hopefully.

"No. That's it, no more flights," Nash told him simply, again sipping from his glass.

"But, sir, this hardly paints a clear picture," Gates objected.

"The Admiralty doesn't want to risk another recon flight, if it's discovered it might alert the Cylons to a possible attack. Additionally, there isn't much time," Commander Nash informed him, though his words didn't have conviction.

"Time for what?" Gates questioned impatiently. What the hell was going on? The Admiralty was pushing for a downright insane attack, unprecedented in the history of warfare and in addition to that they wanted to do it with inadequate intelligence.

"Public support for the war is waning, Major," Nash stated, his tone disappointed. "Admiralty needs a big win in order to drum up support and bring in fresh recruits. Every day we lose hundreds… well, I don't have to tell you we don't have hundreds signing up to replace those losses," the aged warrior shook his head ruefully, remembering the hundreds who'd died under his very own command.

"But there has to be another way. A wild scheme like this just as a PR stunt? That's crazy!" Gates was losing his temper, something he never did, but the reasons behind this half-assed attack made the situation all the worse.

"The government is hesitant to instate conscription," Colonel Faulk acknowledged.

"Hesitant, they downright refuse to do so. They think we can win this damn war on volunteer forces alone. The Admiralty is getting desperate, Major. Our reserve forces are dwindling and we don't have people to fill the gaps," the Commander insisted. Once more he drank from his crystal glass.

"I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, Archie," Nash observed. "You're the CAG, it's no secret, we have to lose three or four pilots before they send us just one replacement."

Gates shook his head, anger swelling up inside him. Commander Nash was right, however. Recruitment numbers had dropped significantly in the last two years, even more so after the Colonial defeat at Oren Island.

The military had become so desperate that they nearly exhausted their coffers offering up large bonuses in order to entice new recruits. Generals and Admirals alike were constantly lobbying the President and Quorum of Twelve to instate a draft. But the politicians were too spineless to do it.

Their constituencies had made the idea of a draft a hot-button issue throughout the war. Any delegate from just about every colony risked losing his support base if he or she suddenly supported the idea of a draft. It didn't matter to the majority of the populace that mankind was fighting for it's very survival-- what right did the government have to send their children off to war? A war that many blamed on the government, as it was they who had developed the Cylons in the first place.

While the fleet had gotten along well enough in the early and middle years of the war, fiercely pushing forward on the backs of patriots, the majority of the human population sat back and watched. As years passed the war became less of a reality, and more a television show they could watch. Battles were no longer being fought on the streets of Caprica City, nor in the ionosphere just above people's homes. Now, most of humanity was safe. Only the poor colonies, and those traders and merchants that attempted to go from planet to planet were in great danger, or so it seemed to the masses. The Colonial military had done a great job of defending humanity's bastions of peace loving, ungrateful citizens. It may have been hard to travel from some colonies to others, but the difference from five years ago was stark.

Of course, now, the good was never broadcast and instead people were bombarded with defeat after defeat. The media had done an excellent job of painting the Colonial Fleet as incompetent fools, blubbering about space hoping to win in a fight, but constantly failing.

Armchair generals and so-called 'experts' hypothesized over the reasons why the military had yet to attain a victory. It could only be due to incompetence. Meanwhile, documentaries, and even movies and television shows were being produced in order to entertain the masses. All the while humanity's sons and daughters were still dying on the frontline. Casting themselves into the depths of space, hurling themselves at the enemy in order to defend hearth and home. Like the most basic and noble of ideas… this war was not for profit or resources. There would be no defeated race, enslaved or forced to pay reparations or tribute. This was defense… it was survival.

The costly loss at Oren Island had compounded the fleeting sense of defeatism back on the colonies, as it was the last major battle in over a year. Win over a dozen skirmishes, destroying ship after ship, and it meant nothing. The media didn't report on little scraps in unknown, similarly numbered sectors of space. No, it meant much more when the fight was over _something_. Anything.

Major Gates rubbed his eyes, the idea of the attack had him exhausted.

"So what is the plan of attack, sir?" he asked hopefully.

"The details haven't been fleshed out yet," the Commander replied, pouring himself another drink. "However, the basic premise is to land as many Marine forces as possible near the largest urban centers on Aerilon. They're supposed to secure those urban centers for follow-on operations. Our job is to chase off the Cylon's supporting fleet in order for us to attain orbital superiority.

"The Admiralty fully understands that Aerilon will not be liberated in a day, or even a week. The idea is to secure a foothold, then isolate the pockets of resistance until we can smoke them out and crush them. In order to do that, however, we must get boots on the ground and secure the space around Aerilon," the Commander hobbled back over to the table, leaning his cane against the furniture. He eased down into his chair with some difficulty.

"It's a risky plan, especially given the fact that we're greatly outnumbered. But it's doable, especially if we can push the Cylons out of orbit. Once the ground forces are cut off it'll just take a few weeks to mop up the resistance… hopefully," Colonel Faulk added. He had been as doubtful over the mission as Gates, but he never showed that outwardly.

Instead, such thoughts were left to the inside of his own mind. He liked the idea for it's brazenness and it's aggressive style. But success was iffy, and it would cost the Colonials dearly. However, as a Colonial officer he would never present those doubts, especially when trying to 'sell' the plan to the ship's CAG.

"So the wing will be split then?" Gates asked assumingly.

"Yes," Nash replied.

"Most of the Raptors will be inserting Marines at designated landing zones. A squadron of Vipers will be flying escort for the Raptors. Everything else will be in the fight over Aerilon," Colonel Faulk informed him.

"In addition to that, we'll be assigning one of our own as a forward air controller. He'll be on the ground with the MSOB team that came aboard a few days ago. The idea being that our Vipers will be able to provide better close air support with a pilot talking them onto their targets," the XO continued.

"He? You have someone in mind?" Gates inquired.

"We do," Colonel Faulk replied.

"How do you feel about Lieutenant Adama?" Commander Nash asked.

"He's young, inexperienced," Major Gates said without hesitation.

"But he's got a lot of potential," the Commander retorted in Husker's defense. "I've read your after action reports, as well as his fitness reports. You speak highly of him, as does his squadron commander."

"Yes, sir. Husker is an outstanding young pilot, he shows a lot of promise… but putting him on the ground for an operation like this seems like a lot of responsibility to throw on a young guy. He's got to handle all CAS the Marines request, and judging by the way this mission is shaping up our boys and girls on the ground are going to be requesting a lot of fixed wing support," the CAG stated hesitantly.

"Look, Major, I understand your reservations about all of this. The mission, Lieutenant Adama, all of it. It's not as though the Colonel and I haven't had our doubts as well, but we've spoken to Admiral Hawkins personally and he's done much to eliminate those doubts. It's a solid plan.

"That said, I want someone on the ground that can be a force multiplier for our people down there. Husker has had solid performance, and isn't the type to freeze up in a jam, regardless of experience. However, the final choice is up to you, Major. If you don't think Husker is up to the task then you choose someone more appropriate. You know your pilots better than I do, after all," the Commander admitted. He polished off the remaining bourbon in his second glass.

Gates quickly attempted to sort out his thoughts. It wasn't that he thought Husker couldn't handle the operation. In fact, Gates would probably have recommended him anyways. The hesitation came with the fact that the mission itself seemed fubar.

Glancing over the numbers of the Cylon's 'support' fleet made it bad enough. Gates wasn't certain of the number of ships that had been assembled over Picon, but he knew just by looking at the report that it would not be enough. The Cylons were in an extremely strong position currently.

But the intelligence for the ground combat element was non-existent. There could be any number of Cylon troops planet-side. Anywhere from hundreds, to a hundred thousand. How could the Admiralty be willing to commit such a huge portion of it's Marines to such a mission without a single iota of intelligence to see if success was even a possibility.

Gates certainly didn't want to send Adama, a promising young officer, into a shit-storm that could, and probably would, lead to his death. But what choice did he have?

"Adama is fine, sir."

**GALACTICA**

**2310 Hrs.**

**Officer's Quarters**

"You sure you're all right?" Adama questioned in a caring tone. He was lying beside Jaycie, who's mind seemed to be distracted since her return from her rather secretive flight. He'd wanted to question her about it, but didn't want to put her on the spot.

"Yeah, I'm… I'm fine, Billy," she assured him. She didn't call him Billy very often, that combined with her odd and distracted behavior made Adama rather certain she wasn't fine.

"Any problems on the flight? Something shake you up?" he pressed.

"Gods, I'm fine!" she snapped, raising from the bed. She leaned over and grabbed her clothes, beginning to dress.

"All right, I'm sorry. I won't bother you about it anymore," Adama replied, turning over on his back and putting his hands behind his head. His dog tags rested upon his bare chest, and the cool feeling of them sent a quick chill up Adama's spine.

Jaycie yanked her shirt back on, buckled her service trousers and searched for her socks and boots. She had been quiet, she knew that, and things hadn't felt the same since her return to the Galactica.

On the flight back she and Toriyama had come to the almost certain conclusion that the Admiralty was going to attack Aerilon. That seemed like a staggering feat to accomplish judging the by the information she and the others had gathered. There was a possibility the fleet would not attack, now that Cylon strength had been detailed to a degree. At the very least she was certain they'd send additional recon flights in, just to be sure of what they were getting into. The idea still bothered her, however, as such an attack would be extremely costly.

The Cylon fleet was nearly double the size of the mighty armada that the Colonials had amassed over Picon. Such a thing seemed impossible, and she wondered how they had such great numbers. Early in the war they didn't have anywhere near that number of Basestars, where were they producing these things?

She wondered if that was their main force, did another force as strong exist somewhere else? Or were the Cylons putting all their chips into Aerilon? Maybe they planned to hold Aerilon in order to construct manufacturing plants and build more Raiders, Baseships and Centurions. If that was the case, then maybe an attack would be a good idea, maybe they could inflict a devastating final blow and end this damned war for good.

"I'm sorry, Billy," she turned to apologize, sitting down on the bed beside him. She ran her fingers across his bare chest, her soft eyes gazing into his own. He grinned slightly in the momentary silence. "We flew to Aerilon today."

"Yeah?" Adama raised a brow, he knew what she was telling him was no doubt classified, but he wouldn't ask if she was sure she'd want to explain. After all, he'd pestered her about it and it wasn't as if he was going to turn around and sell secrets to the Cylons anyways.

"Yeah. We were collecting intel on their strength and position over the planet," she paused for a moment, closing her eyes and lowering her head. "They're strong, Billy, really strong. I think Fleet wants to attack."

Adama was quiet at the revelation. He thought momentarily, attack and liberate Aerilon? Had anything like that ever been done? Not likely, but it seemed like a good enough idea. He felt as though they had an obligation to the people who were trapped there, forced to live under Cylon tyranny. They were probably all being methodically exterminated by the emotionless machines.

"Good," he replied icily. "It's about time we turn the tide." His eyes took on a colder tone as they stared upward, directly into the bunk above him.

"Good? Hey, Hotshot, you didn't see the intelligence reports! They've got almost twice as many ships there, I'm talking about nearly thirty or so Baseships!" she warned.

"So? We've got superior skill and better technology. With all the assembled Battlestars we should be--" he was interrupted by Jaycie.

"There are only seventeen Battlestars with the fleet right now," she shook her head disapprovingly. "Even with all the frigates and cruisers we're outmatched." She stood up once more, surprised by Adama's willingness to assault such a powerful enemy. His youthful exuberance and perhaps his hubris could lead to a bloody end, an idea she didn't like in the least.

"Look, something has to be done. This war has gone on long enough," Adama sat up and slid his legs off the bunk, he looked up at Jaycie, that soft glow returning to his hardened blue eyes. "After all these years of fighting… we have a chance to _liberate_ an entire planet, save our people from the Cylons and maybe even deal out a crushing blow. Imagine if we shatter a force that strong? There can't be many Cylons left out there," he was certain of it, and apparently had the same idea in his own mind that Jaycie had considered just moments before.

It was possible, but was the risk worth such a possibility? Jaycie was leaning more towards no. An attack on such a strong enemy would lead to numerous casualties, and even if they won the battle over the planet who knew how strong the Cylons were on the ground. The fleet could possibly win, but their back would be broken and they'd have to hope that was the main source of Cylon power. If the Cylons had another strong fleet out there it could spell disaster for the Colonials.

**GALACTICA**

**2325 Hrs.**

**Pilot's Ready Room**

The Combat Air Patrol briefing had finished, those who would be a part of the Galactica's contingent were already leaving, headed for their planes in order to commence the drudgery that was CAP.

Major Archie Gates watched as the last pilot left the ready room. He stood quietly behind the podium, a position he was as at home behind as he was in a cockpit. His eyes slowly studied the room around him. The many pictures which adorned the gray walls. Photos of pilots that had come and gone, some lucky enough to survive their tours, others who had given their lives in the defense of the Colonies.

It was a confounding sight. There were so many. Dozens before Gates was even aboard the Galactica, dozens more while he was here, and undoubtedly dozens after he was gone. That was of course, if the Galactica survived this mission.

Attack Aerilon? He couldn't shake the idea, it gave him chills. In all his professional career he had never felt so apprehensive, so nervous, so entirely negative about an offensive or any operation for that matter. The Admiralty was making a mistake, he could see it clearly, how could they not?

But what was he to do? He was just a Major, another of many CAG's that would likely be feeling the way he did now as the plan was revealed to them. Even Commander Nash had been unable to do a thing about it. Despite the fact that he and Colonel Faulk pressed the idea of a successful mission to Major Gates he was certain they felt as badly about the outcome as he did. He wasn't a rookie, he'd had enough years in the military to know that your superiors weren't supposed to show their misgivings or doubts about an operation-- especially if said operation was going to be costly.

It was so easy for the Admiralty to sit back in their air conditioned offices, protected by a mighty fleet and orbital defenses, quietly planning the Fleet's tactics on a great map of the star system. It was like a game to them, how could it not be? Battlestars, frigates, Vipers, it didn't matter to them, they were just pieces on a table, like Chess.

He stepped over to the pilot's board, examining the extensive roster of all the men and women who flew within Galactica's air wing.

Grimm, Havoc, Chomper, Chaos, Sparrow, Hawk, Husker, Dice, SlyPig, Voodoo, Banzai, Racer, Speedy, Egghead, Calypso, and so many more. They were all his responsibility, each had a family. People that cared about them back home, people that would want to see them return home after this Gods awful war had finally ended. It was his responsibility to get them home, but how could he be expected to do so under such circumstances?

He closed his eyes and thought of the many names who'd been lost under his command. When a pilot went down, Gates had duplicates of their dog tags made. He kept the small bag of the identification in his room, he would always be reminded of the cost of this war, the cost to survive. Now he wondered if even he would make it back alive to his wife and young son.

"Attention, Major Gates please report to the Portside Hangar Deck, Major Gates please report to the Portside Hangar Deck," a voice announced over the PA system. The seasoned Viper pilot opened his eyes, he was late. It was time to launch the CAP.


	8. On the Precipice

**Chapter Eight: On the Precipice**

**FLEET HQ**

**0900 Hrs.**

**Senior Staff Briefing Room**

"The attack, codenamed Operation Salamis, will begin at 0800 in two days," the words of Admiral Wyatt Hawkins filtered throughout the senior staff briefing room within the Admiralty's fleet headquarters that orbited Picon. Every ship commander was present, from the mighty Battlestars to much smaller and lightly armed troop carriers.

Salamis was a tribute to a previous battle fought, the first major engagement between Cylon forces and the Colonial's new Battlestars. The battle had taken place nine years ago and had been a stunning defeat for the Cylon's. It was the battle which gave the Colonials hope, and proved the strength and efficiency of the Battlestars. Salamis had become the new rallying cry throughout the Colonies, as it was shown 'Victory can be achieved'!

A large 3-dimensional map was illuminated beside the Admiral, as he detailed the plans of the largest operation in human history.

"Before you are details regarding the Cylon's defensive fleet in orbit around Aerilon," the Admiral described. Within the 3D image, many small ships began to appear, all representing Cylon Basestars and Raiders.

There were murmurs throughout the meeting room, as the commanding officers undoubtedly saw the size of the Cylon fleet.

"I know what you're thinking," Admiral Hawkins continued, "It seems like a daunting task to take on such a force. But I assure you, with our experience and technological superiority we _will_ pull this off. We spent hours pouring over the information here at headquarters in order to define a no-bullshit assessment on whether or not such an attack was conceivable. Afterward, we had come to the conclusion that not only was such an attack possible, but favorable.

"Given the Cylon's troop strength, they are more than likely secure in the knowledge that a daring attack in order to free Aerilon is out of the question to us. Their defensive posture is relaxed, as Raider patrols are scarce and long range DRADIS sweeps don't appear to be occurring. They are secure in the knowledge that we would never attempt such an attack… and why shouldn't they be? Nothing as ambitious as this has ever been tried." The Admiral paused momentarily as images of Battlestars, troops transports, cruisers, Frigates, Vipers and Raptors began to materialize on the screen.

"As we jump into the system all troop transports and Battlestars will launch their Raptor compliments. Aboard these Raptors our Marines and special forces operators will be preparing for their groundside invasion," the Admiral paused once more, as clouds of Raptors poured from the various ships throughout the fleet.

"Along with the Raptors there will be several wings of Vipers flying escort. It is the job of these Vipers to provide cover for the Raptors while they drop their contingent of Marines on the deck. Once the Marines have touched down planet-side the Viper's, utilizing various FACs on the ground, will do their absolute best to achieve air superiority and provide close air support for the ground combat elements." The 3D map zoomed in to show satellite imagery of the various landing zones where Marine infantry units would be making landfall.

In front of each Commander was the details concerning his compliment of Vipers and Raptors, as well as where Marines deployed from his or her ship would be operating. Of course, throughout the hundred page mission order there were details concerning every other unit present for the operation.

"After LZ's have been secured heavy transports will bring in the big guns. 155mm towed artillery pieces and several companies of Landrams. As you can see by your copies of the mission outline these assets will be provided where resistance is expected to be heaviest," the Admiral stated easily. The artillery pieces would be used to soften up enemy defenses in the locations where fleet intelligence had deemed would most _likely_ be the most significant. A rather large gamble, but considering the total lack of any groundside intelligence it couldn't be helped, or at least the Admiralty wasn't willing to help it.

The Landram was an all purpose, lightly-armored troop transport. It operated on a pair of tracks and was equipped with a double barreled 25mm rapid fire kinetic energy weapon. It was capable of carrying up to six Marines in addition to it's three man crew. It was capable of decent speed and enjoyed an operational range of well over 300 miles, but it's light skin made it susceptible small arms fire and most especially to Cylon ordinance and anti-armor weapons.

"Marine commanders have been briefed separately regarding their own objectives," the Admiral continued. The 3-dimensional rendering of Aerilon returned, replacing the satellite images of the surface.

"Overhead is the most important part of this operation," Admiral Hawkins cleared his throat. "It is absolutely vital that we achieved orbital superiority and cast out the Cylon's defensive fleet. In order to do this we utilize our superior firepower coupled with better tactics. The toasters are machines, incapable of acting creatively. They stick to the doctrine which we programmed into them. As we attack fighters will provide screens, keeping the Raiders off of our ships while we pound away at the Cylon Baseships. Raptors are to act as missile pickets.

"With concentrated salvos from several ships at once we firmly believe the Baseships will not be able to stand up to our forces. Gentleman, your entire air group will be deployed, and it is of the utmost importance that our formation is maintained in order to maximize firepower on the enemy. It's going to be a tough fight, perhaps the toughest you have ever faced, both on the ground and in space… but let me make this clear; the liberation of one of our Twelve Colonies is one of the most important, if not most noble, of our undertakings. There are human beings suffering on the planet at the hands of the Cylons. It is our duty, as soldiers and protectors of humanity, to do something about it. We have resolved ourselves to do so. No Cylon fleet, no matter how large or menacing, can stop us in this. We are the pride of mankind, we are Athena's spear and we shall strike at the enemy with the invincible might of a fleet secure in the knowledge that when the dust has settled it is we who shall be victorious," the Admiral paused for a moment for dramatic affect.

"So say we all!" he announced loudly.

"So say we all!" Replied the elated officers, stirred to action in the final moments of the Admiral's impromptu speech, despite reservations about the operation.

"So say we all!" The Admiral belted out louder.

"So say we all!" the crowd of officers matched his pitch and a rhythmic, quaking chant began. If only enthusiasm counted for something more on the battlefield…

**BATTLESTAR GALACTICA**

**1130 Hrs.**

**Hangar Deck**

The deckhands and knuckle draggers were working around the clock in order to get every single Viper and Raptor up to snuff in order for an important 'operation'. It had been difficult for the men and women of Chief Pheros' deck gang to understand the importance of such an operation, when the details of it were kept so secret. No one knew what this operation was supposed to be, but it didn't matter. You either worked efficiently and repaired your assigned aircraft, or Chief Pheros hammered you endlessly with profanities and latrine duty.

The pilots worked side-by-side with their deckhands. They had been alerted to the importance of said secret operation, and while they didn't know the details either, they were understanding of the importance of working ships, most especially because it would be them who was piloting them.

"What do you think this is all about?" Dice questioned interestedly as he fiddled around with the targeting system in his Viper.

"Not sure," Adama replied hesitantly, as he leaned into the cockpit to see Dice's progress.

"I mean, shit, they've got this huge fleet here. Now Chief Pheros is barking at the snipes to get every plane operable as if the end of the worlds is coming," Dice noticed.

"Yeah well, when has Pheros not barked like that?" Adama questioned.

"Ah, good point," Dice admitted.

Adama pulled away from Dice's cockpit, standing tall atop the ladder that allowed the pilots to access their fighters. He looked all around, watched as the crews worked feverishly on their fighters. Every pilot in Primus Squadron was present, eking out whatever last minute mechanical issues with their aircraft that they could.

He wondered if anyone knew, if anyone was aware of this great task that lie before them. It seemed so obvious now that he was aware himself. A massive human fleet assembled over Picon, importance of all fighters being at tip-top condition, the MSOB teams, the addition of heavier weapons for the Marines. How could anyone not put it together? Of course, he'd been blind as well, unsure of what it was all for, until McGavin told him.

He glanced over at his own Viper, maintenance on it complete. He wondered how that bird would carry him through the fight. He wasn't sure if he was competent enough, or ready for such a massive engagement in space. The fight for the Tylium fleet had been harrowing enough, now he'd be in the thick soup of thousands upon thousands of aircraft slugging it out for dominance. The idea was unsettling, despite his earlier enthusiasm regarding the mission.

"Attention, Lieutenant Adama report to the Commander's quarters. Attention, Lieutenant Adama report to the Commander's quarters," the voice of Petty Officer Cameron announced over the PA from her position on the CIC.

"Uh-oh," Dice looked over at his friend. "Always in trouble, or maybe it's just that you're the biggest kiss ass in the galaxy."

"Yeah, yeah," Adama replied airily as he marched his way down the ladder beside Dice's plane and scurried off to the Commander's quarters.

**GALACTICA**

**1136 Hrs.**

**Commander's Quarters**

"I've assigned your forward air controller, he's currently en-route and should be here momentarily, Captain," Commander Nash addressed Captain Shepard. The Marine officer stood at parade rest, as rigid as ever. Beside him, his SNCO, Gunny Clay.

"Thank you, sir," he replied emotionlessly.

"I hope to the Gods you know what you're doing down there. He might be a rook, but he's one of our best," Major Gates interjected, alerting the Captain to his doubts about the operation on the ground, the details of which they were still in the dark about. Colonel Faulk stood silently beside Galactica's CAG.

"Perhaps now is an appropriate time to flesh some points out for us, Captain," Commander Nash invited.

"Sir?" Shepard raised a brow, canting his head.

"I'd like to know the details of your operation," Nash put in.

"I'm not at liberty to say, sir. My mission's objectives are deemed classified and on a need to know basis only," the Captain staunchly responded.

"Need to know? You don't think I need to know?" Commander Nash asked irritated. "You're taking my Raptors, crewed by my pilots groundside, you're using my Vipers to provide air support for _your_ mission, and you're taking one my most promising pilots. Now, with all that Galactica has vested in _your_ mission, I'd imagine it crucial that more details are given; besides 'Capturing and investigating a target of interest'. Don't you think, Captain?" the Commander peered at the sentinels standing before him. He'd always known Marines to be disciplined, but these MSOB Marines operated on a different wave length. From day one in their own unit they were told they were special, not expected to adhere to many of the important traditions of the Colonial Fleet.

There was silence in the room as the Captain turned over what the Commander had said in his mind. Finally he spoke. "No, sir," he responded simply.

Major Gates shook his head in dismay. He found it hard to believe these men would remain so tight-lipped. The old Viper pilot was aware of the importance of operational security, but these men took it to another level. After all, what risk was their in making the senior officers aboard Galactica aware of their mission objectives.

The entire mission seemed strange, very cloak and dagger. What they did know was that the team would be heading in the later portion of the first wave. Once they'd establish themselves planet-side they were going to press forward along with the 19th Infantry Battalion's advance, utilizing them to press through the major Cylon defenses outside Areopagus, Aerilon's capital city.

Once the advance was halted, or it had achieved it's objectives, Shepard's MSOB team was to detach itself and move to an unspecified grid location to investigate what fleet had deemed as a 'target of interest', which of course left a great deal to the imagination.

Shepard had told them this was the ultimate objective for his team, and that it was deemed paramount to the success of the liberation as a whole. He informed them that despite the situation on the ground, he would reach the target and complete his objectives.

This had worried Commander Nash, seeing the near-fanaticism in the Captain's eyes. He knew the man took the mission seriously, and he worried over the welfare of the pilot he'd assigned to accompany the special operations team.

"I'm not sure I like your attitude, Captain," Commander Nash reprimanded the Captain. He was aware his point was weak, however.

"I'm sorry if you feel that way, sir. I've only spoken in truth and I believe I have utilized respect and tact in doing so," Shepard replied almost robotically.

"I believe the details of your mission are important, and I understand your need for secrecy, but I also believe it's important that I be made aware of the circumstances concerning this operation," Commander Nash implored the much younger Captain.

"Admiralty and the Commandant to not seem to share your opinion, sir," Captain Shepard stated apathetically.

Commander Nash narrowed his eyes, peering at the upstart Marine. "Captain," he began, but a knock at the hatch stopped him.

"Sir, Lieutenant William Adama, reporting as ordered," Husker's flight-suit clad physique had stepped into the Commander's quarters. He now stood firmly at attention, his hand placed near his temple in a perfect, crisp salute.

"At ease, Lieutenant," Commander Nash replied.

Husker dropped his hand, and fell into parade rest, his muscles relaxing. He was perplexed by his summoning to the Commander's quarters, and as he surveyed the assembled crowd he thought that he had perhaps misheard the announcement Petty Officer Cameron had made.

"Am I interrupting something, sir?" he asked sheepishly. Both Marines looked over at him, like a pair of falcons eye-balling possible prey. Their gaze made him uncomfortable.

"No, Lieutenant. In fact, you are just in time," Commander Nash began. He eased up out of his chair with a degree of difficulty. "I'd like you to meet Captain Shepard and Gunnery Sergeant Clay," Nash offered a hand toward the two MSOB operators.

The two simply nodded acknowledgement toward Husker.

"As you may have guessed, they are from 1st Marine Special Operations Battalion," the Commander informed him.

Husker's confusion continued. What difference did that make to him? They weren't of any significance to him, he was a Viper pilot and a rookie one to boot.

"You've probably heard all of the rumors regarding why this fleet has been assembled. Well, I'd like to clarify things for you. I don't know what you've heard; but quite simply we are attacking Aerilon with the intent of liberating it," the Commander said with heavy tone. The Marines seemed unaffected by the information, while Major Gates shifted his weight uneasily.

"Sir?" Husker feigned ignorance of the plan, however, hearing it from Commander Nash added a larger degree of gravity to the entirety of it all. Before it was a mission that Jaycie had speculated about it, now it was certain and for some reason the Commander had Husker here telling him first. Why?

"I ask that you keep this absolutely to yourself. Tomorrow night the Galactica, along with the rest of the assembled fleet, will be leaving our moorings here over Picon. We'll be departing for Aerilon, once our departure has begun the rest of the crew will be made aware of the operation. Secrecy is important to the success of this mission. I don't have to explain to you the importance of that do I?" Commander Nash beseeched him, his eyes studying the young pilot, who was visibly perturbed from the news.

"No, sir. I understand… but," Adama paused for a moment, attempting to form the right words in his mind. "Why am I here?" he asked bluntly.

"Good question, Lieutenant," Nash limped over sans cane, grasped a folder of satellite photos and handed them to the young Viper jock. "You're going to be attached to these gentleman's team as they take part in the groundside invasion of Aerilon."

Adama's eyes widened, half out of surprise, half from terror. Groundside invasion? What the frak was he being given such a task? He was a pilot, not a damned Marine. He could scarcely remember the basics of infantry combat that he had been taught at the Basic School. That was a long time ago, and he'd banished such knowledge from his mind, preferring information that related to his real job.

"But… why me, sir?" he asked hesitantly. Perhaps questioning the orders was a bad idea, he should've accepted them without hesitation. He felt foolish now for his simpleton reaction.

"The ground combat element of this invasion is in need of forward air controllers in order to better integrate and allow for more effective combined arms. Those boys and girls on the ground are going to need close air support quite often, it's best to have trained pilots down there calling our birds in," Commander Nash made him aware of the reason he was going, but not why he had been chosen. "Frankly, I'm a bit reserved about sending anyone, but it's necessary and you've proven yourself capable of such a task."

Adama wasn't sure how he'd done that. All he had ever done was fly his damn plane like the rest of Galactica's air group. He looked at Major Gates helplessly, but the CAG offered no solace.

"Is there a problem, Lieutenant?" Captain Shepard asked, noticing the look on Adama's face.

"No… no, sir. No problem whatsoever," he replied, gathering his composure once more.

"Good. Then I ask that you report to the visitors quarters at 1200 hrs to meet the rest of our team and familiarize yourself with the surrounding area that we'll be landing," the Captain spoke evenly, his voice void of any sort of emotion. "That said, Commander Nash, I request permission to retire from this meeting."

"Granted, Captain," Nash allowed, nodding.

The two Marines saluted and once Nash had returned the gesture they exited the room smartly.

"Lieutenant," Nash turned his attention back to Husker. "They have been assigned with an undoubtedly difficult and dangerous task. The nature of which is a mystery even to us. As they familiarize you with the situation, they will likely keep the important parts a secret. I'm not sure why, but the Admiralty seems to be very hush-hush about all of this business." Nash paused for a moment, lowering himself into his seat once more. He could feel the throbbing pain returning to his old wound, and the stiffness that accompanied it.

"I'll be honest with you. I don't like this situation. I hate being kept in the dark, especially when my people are involved, but I didn't have any choice. I hope you understand, you were chosen because you are fit and young and we all have a great deal of confidence in you," Nash complimented. "Be wary out there with those Marines, and do yourself a favor and don't snoop around anymore than you have to. I'm not sure how far this Captain Shepard will go in order to keep the details of his mission a secret…"

As the Commander finished Adama swallowed with some degree of difficulty. He never believed that he'd ever made such an impression with his superiors. Now his own doubts about the mission seemed to materialize. At least in the cockpit of his Viper he was in his element. A place where he had some degree of control over what transpired. He could use what he had learned to his advantage, indeed, maybe even make a difference.

But on the ground? What would he be besides some bumbling pilot tagging along with enigmatic special forces soldiers on some wild secret mission? He accepted the mission, of course, as if he had a choice. But as he bid his senior officers farewell he couldn't help but feel as though he was going to pass out over such an assignment.

**GALACTICA**

**1500 Hrs.**

**Gym**

Grunting, Adama managed to press the bar upward for his eighth repetition. He slowly lowered it once more, then exploded upward… nine. He repeated the process for the last time, this time struggling as he exerted all of his power attempting to get the bar high enough to rack the two hundred and twenty five pounds of weight.

His face was red as he struggled, Banzai's fingers were wrapped gently around the bar as he willed his friend on.

"C'mon, Husker, one more, one more," he urged.

The positive reinforcement helped and perhaps even the placebo effect of Banzai 'helping' him get the bar up. Adama managed his last rep, then racked the heavy-laden barbell.

He sat up, sweat gleaming on his exhausted face. He exhaled heavily and used a towel to wipe away the excess perspiration.

"Nice job," Banzai complimented with a grin. "What's got you so amped?"

Adama ignored the question, he just shook his head. "Nothing."

The Lieutenant stood, crossed the gym, and grabbed the jump rope. "Just have a lot of energy to burn, I guess," he said nonchalantly. He began to jump the rope, his pace continuous and slow at first, but as the seconds passed he upped the tempo, increasing his speed and thus the energy output.

Banzai looked on curiously, a grimace almost crossed his friend's face. He looked angry, as if he was using the gym to burn off that anger. It wasn't unheard of. Lords, it was common to get rid of aggression in the weight room. Once you started to exercise your brain kicked in with endorphins, generally giving you that euphoric feeling after your workout, which was enough to put any bad mood to rights.

Banzai had wondered whether or not Commander Nash had delivered some kind of bad news to Husker. After all, he hadn't started acting this way until he'd left his meeting with the aged commanding officer. Now he was being quiet, more than usual.

While Husker had always worked hard in the gym, pushing himself strenuously, Banzai hadn't seen him act in this manner. He hardly rested between each set of his previous exercises, instead he continually punished himself as he rabidly pushed more and more weight. It was as if he was attempting to catch up to some superior athlete in strength and endurance, like he was going to be competing in the Colonial Olympiad or something. It almost had Banzai worried… almost.

**GALACTICA**

**1624 Hrs.**

**Mess Deck**

"Man, it's so crazy all the rumors flying around," Dice ruminated. He sat at a table on the mess deck along with Voodoo, Grimm, Princess, Havoc and Chaos.

"I heard we're attacking Aerilon," Grimm said with a chuckle. "About time we take it to the toasters!"

"That's insane. Why would we do that?" Princess questioned, her attitude displeased and filled with worry over such a prospect. She was a relatively new pilot, having come aboard with Adama. She'd earned her nickname for her demeanor, as she could be rather yuppyish and seemed to turn her nose up at a great deal of things.

"Maybe cause we can't win this frakking war by sitting on our asses here?" Chaos affirmed derisively. "I'm with Grimm on this one, let's go kick their ass, wherever it is."

"I don't know, guys. I'm all for hammering out some toaster's ass, but liberating an entire Colony? That's never been done before and some shit like that is going to get a lot of people killed," Dice commented, shoveling an inordinate amount of food into his mouth.

"Why don't we just stop talking about it then? We have no idea what the frak is going on, so let's stop pretending we do and just wait until we get word. I hear Major Gates is giving a briefing in a day or two," Havoc alerted them.

The group didn't speak again for a few moments as they focused on their chow. Food on a Battlestar wasn't particularly good, but it was a hundred times better than the field rations they'd eaten in OCS and at the Basic School. None of them had fond memories of those things, and wondered how it was that the Marines survived on such muck. Today it was barbecue pork cutlet with green beans and mashed potatoes, complete with a dry, almost rock-solid biscuit. At least the dessert looked appetizing, banana cream pie.

"Still, I can't stop thinking about it," Dice brought it up once more. "I mean, they aren't letting anyone on or off the ship unless they have written authorization and all of the off-ship calls are restricted. We can't even call home or anything. That's got to mean something," he theorized.

"Dice, stop being such a bitch," Voodoo interrupted. "If they say we go, we go. What the frak are you so worried about?"

"Uh, I don't know, dying?" Dice replied irreverently.

"Well I promise I won't let the big bad Cylons hurt little baby Dice," Voodoo said back, parodying the face of a mother baby-talking a small child.

"Frak you, Voodoo," Dice shot back, throwing his biscuit at his fellow pilot.

"I heard after his meeting with Commander Nash, Husker went over to the visitor's quarters to talk with all those special forces guys," Grimm alleged.

"Really? Why?" Chaos asked with interest.

"Hell if I know, but Chomper said he saw him walking into where they were staying," Grimm responded.

"Maybe he went to play a game of triad," Dice attempted an excuse.

"Yeah, not likely. Those Marines don't talk to _anyone_. Not even to other Marines," Grimm exclaimed.

Dice turned the idea over and over in his mind. Adama going to talk to the MSOB Marines, what did that mean? It could've been anything, it was probably harmless. But Dice felt the same as everyone else aboard the Galactica, something was afoot, there was no denying it, and Adama's chat with the Marines was more indication of that.

"It would be nice to end this shit," Dice admitted, referring to the war. "It's been over a year and a half since I've been home." He reflected on that, but _home_ didn't hold much substance for him anymore. He had only been home to visit an aunt and uncle, the rest of his family was gone.

"Tell me about it. I'm getting out after the war," Grimm announced. "No more of this slop for food and waking up whenever someone else decides. It's going to be home cooked meals and rising when I damn well please."

"So you're going to go home and live with your mommy?" Voodoo asked mockingly.

"Maybe. At least till I get on my feet. All I know right now is I just want to get out, sit on a couch and do nothing for a few months. I want no responsibility, no commitment, nothing. Do whatever I want with my own frakking time, instead of getting called out of the rack to go help the snipes down on the hangar deck or for some midnight safety brief cause some dick decided to be a hotshot and frak around when he was landing and messed up his bird. No more group punishments, no more no-alcohol eight hours prior to duty, no more operational risk management, reset training, annual and required class work. All that crap… I'm done with it," Grimm swore. He leaned back in his chair.

"If I have to kill every last toaster to get that, then frak it, I'll do it," he finished, his own expression as serious as ever.

**PILOT'S READY ROOM**

**0720 Hrs.**

**Mission Briefing**

The ready room was crowded with a variety of pilots from the assorted squadrons posted to Galactica. Those who had not found a seat were lining the walls creating a crowd that would be impossible to penetrate if one wished to get out of the room.

Major Gates had attempted to cram every single pilot within the Galactica's air group within the briefing area, but it wasn't possible. Consequently, he would need to give this briefing twice, as the group was split in half. The other half stood impatiently just outside the hatch of the ready room.

The Galatica would be departing within the next forty minutes or so, along with the entirety of the fleet. This meant the briefing had to be as short as possible; Gates would need to keep to his schedule in order for the pilots to have the opportunity to get to their tasks before the fleet reached Aerilon. He cursed the need for 'secrecy until the last minute', as he would not be giving his people an adequate briefing beforehand. It was paramount that things ran like clockwork, which meant the pilots would need to be briefed, in their Vipers, and in the launch tubes by the time they reached Aerilon. It didn't leave much time for getting sidetracked, or even giving an appropriate mission brief. This was part of the military bureaucracy. Create a tight schedule almost impossible to stick to and you were opening yourself up to problems at the very start.

"There's been a lot of talk," he started, presiding over the assembled pilots behind his podium. "A lot of talk about what this fleet is here for. It's time to dispel some rumors and perhaps confirm some others."

The pilots in the room shifted their weight, some fiddled with pens or pencils, or their own dog tags as the nervous apprehension over Gates' announcement seized them all.

"We are attacking Aerilon with the intent of liberating it," Gates told them, trying to muster whatever bravado he could in his own voice in order to instill confidence in his young pilots.

There were a few moments of clamor, as pilots turned to one another in disbelief, or said 'I told you so'. Then there was worry and doubt, as others announced how such a feat had never been done and that it was impossible to even consider. Just before the clamor reached a fevered pitch Gates silence them.

"At ease!" he called out, the group quieted down at the immediate show of authority. "Look, I don't have to tell you this is going to be dangerous. It's likely going to be the greatest challenge any of us have ever faced. But these are our marching orders and if we are going to make a difference in this war then we have to take the fight to the enemy." Gates scarcely believed the words he was saying, but then this was not the first time he'd been asked to lead a mission or take part in an op that he had no confidence in. He would do so with professionalism.

Charts detailing the Cylon positions were uncovered. More din arose within the ready room as pilots saw the Cylon strength and compared it to their own assessment of the assembled fleet. However, squadron commanders silenced the displeasure before it turned to an uproar, willing to back up their CAG on anything he'd brief in the next few minutes.

"Our attack force will be split. All of our Raptors are going to be taking a groundside invasion force to the surface. Every Raptor is going to be packed full of Marines. Your designated landing zones are within your mission folders, take a look, familiarize yourself with the surrounding terrain to make L-Z identification easier once you're out there.

"Along with the Raptors we'll have Vipers flying escort and defensive duties. Once the last of the ground elements is on the deck those same Vipers will be switching roles, acting as close air support for our people on the ground." Gates sifted through his papers, then picked out the roster he'd been searching for. "Voodoo, SlyPig, Grimm, Mustang, and Spike are assigned to that mission. It's important you all keep any bandits off the Raptors, we don't need to lose any people on the inbound flight. Expect some chop on the deck, we have next to no intel regarding the Cylon's defenses or troop strength planetside but we reasonably assumed that they have constructed anti-air defenses by now," Gates briefed them. The pilots had now accepted the mission, if not without their own reservations. They silently listened as he detailed the plans to them, nervousness showing clear as day upon most of their faces.

"Sir, has the fleet considered forward air controllers? A pilot from our cadre to accompany the Marines and allow for better communication between us and them? It might improve the close air support," Captain Hilarion asked from his position on the right of the ready room.

"In fact the fleet has, Captain. A FAC has already been selected. That… honor will fall to Husker," Gates replied.

Many of the pilots glanced over at Husker, who stood with some degree of discomfort, arms crossed and leaning against the wall of the room.

"Carrying on," Gates continued. "The remainder of the Galactica's air group will be flying a fighter picket and air defense maneuvers in orbit around Aerilon. Once the Raptors have dropped their payload of Marines they will immediately return to Galactica, refit, refuel and punch back out, acting as missile pickets.

"Now, this is arguably the most important part of the entire operation. We need to get this Cylon fleet to retreat, or we destroy it. If we don't secure the orbit around Aerilon then we cannot drop reinforcements planetside to help our ground combat element.

"As you can see by these numbers, the Cylons are stronger. Almost by twice as much. But you're all well aware of how significant such an advantage means in the end, we've engaged a superior force many times in the past and walked away victorious," the Major cleared his throat as he glanced over at the images displaying the Cylon's strength.

"Our main goal is going to be fighter defense. We keep the fighters off of the Galactica and neighboring ships so they can focus their firepower on the Basestars. The idea is that with concentrated barrages the Basestars won't be hanging around too long.

"There's going to be a lot of action out there, a lot of planes and a lot of flak. Keep your eyes open and stay frosty. Cover your wingman and stick with your squadrons, I don't want anyone bunching up but don't get singled out and annihilated either. Remember your training and we'll win this thing. May the Gods be with us out there people, dismissed," Gates concluded. The pilots hung back for a moment, as if suspended in disbelief. After several moments they rose and exited the room. All the while the second half of Galactica's air group would filter in to receive the same brief.

**GALACTICA**

**0800 Hrs.**

**CIC**

"Sir, all stations reporting they are cleared and in condition one. Standing by for additional orders," Oliveira told her commanding officer.

"Good. Thank you, Lieutenant," Nash replied. His hand was curved tightly around his cane as he examined the DRADIS console overhead, Colonel Faulk stood quietly beside him.

"Helm, portside stern engines at 25%. Starboard bow thrusters at 20%, take us away from our moorings," Nash ordered calmly. The crew within the CIC sat quietly, all had been made aware of the mission and all of them were gripped in expectant anxiety.

"Aye, aye, sir," the helmsman responded, as he deftly maneuvered the Galactica away from it's docking position with the Admiralty's orbital headquarters.

"Lieutenant Oliveira, follow the course headings briefed to you this morning and keep us tight with the remainder of the fleet. As soon as we are over Aerilon I want firing solutions as quickly as possible," Commander Nash ordered coolly.

"Yes, sir," Oliveira responded.

"This is going to be one hell of a fight," Colonel Faulk murmured to his commander.

"Let's hope it's the last big one of this Gods-awful war," Nash replied hopefully, though doubting such a thing.

The Galactica eased out into it's formation location amid the myriad of other Colonial Fleet ships. Battlestars, cruisers, frigates, and troop transports were all assembled. Arranged in a loose but intentional formation and traveling slowly at sub-light speed. As they cleared orbit they accelerated, almost in perfect unison as the serene blue glow of their mighty engines brightened and groaned as they exerted more power and propelled the fleet onward.

"All ships away. Fleet is en-route to Aerilon," Oliveira announced, closely monitoring her DRADIS console. She cross-checked her navigational charts, trusting in the fleet's own navigation officers but hoping to stifle any of her own doubts. She was exact in that way, only truly comfortable behind her own work and careful not to rely on the efforts of others too much.

Commander Nash reached over and grabbed the handset which was positioned on the combat information table just below the DRADIS console. He pulled it from it's cradle and waited a moment as the feedback cleared the microphone over the public address system.

"This is the Commander," he began. His tone heavy and laden with a seriousness not often seen by the crew of the Galactica. "As you all know by now we have embarked upon a great mission. A mission that's sole purpose is to free our fellows upon Aerilon from the shackles of a robotic oppressor.

"Now, this is a dangerous mission-- more perilous than any battle I have yet fought in this war. But let me make this clear, that does not make it a battle not worth fighting for. We must never forget the importance of protecting those unable to do so for themselves. Aerilon is home to many of you, and we strike at it with the object of freeing her people and striking a crippling blow against the Cylon's.

"You all may have your doubts, but remember that as long as you stand to your duty and remember what you have trained for all these months and years you will be okay. I can't say we'll bring everyone home, but I can tell you that our actions on this day shall be remembered as the day when humanity took the initiative away from the abominations we created and cast them back into the darkness. Stand tall, look to the men and women on your left and right, and fight hard; as I know you will. Good luck, and it's been an honor serving as your Commander," Nash finished, and quietly replaced the handset in it's cradle. Simple words from an officer not especially gifted with oratory skills.

He silently looked back up at the DRADIS console, admiring the assembled numbers as their colonial transponders blinked radiantly upon the screen. Would it be enough? Gods, he hoped it would enough…


	9. The Daring Gambit

**Chapter Nine: The Daring Gambit**

**BATTLESTAR GALACTICA**

**0830 Hrs.**

**Hangar Deck**

Neat queues of young Marines, clad in their camouflaged utilities, streamed toward awaiting Raptor transports.

Each man was heavily equipped, carrying either a service rifle or a light-machinegun. Others lugged crew served weapons like medium and heavy machineguns, or mortar systems. Even anti-armor teams dragged out the big rockets, hoping not to need such ordinance, but bringing it along nevertheless.

Their faces were a menagerie of different emotions. Fear, hope, excitement, motivation, doubt and dread showed clearly upon each man's visage. Helmets were buckled and straps were tightened as each man and woman made their way along with their squad to their respective transport.

A million thoughts ran through each Marine's mind. Would they win? Could they? Would they survive this battle? Not a single one of them had the answers, but each dealt with these questions in their own way.

Some chewed tobacco, or smoked (despite regulations against smoking on the deck). Others gripped prayer beads and spoke to their favored Gods, pleading for a break… for survival. Still more bit their lip and thought of their homes and of the loved ones they'd left behind. In quiet reverence they remembered simpler times when such harrowing dangers were far from a reality.

Now they would march to war and many of them would not return.

Adama quietly reflected on the scene that unfolded before him. The hangar deck was as alive as he had ever seen it. Not only did the Marines march their way to the Raptors that would take them planetside, but now Viper pilots scurried to their fighters. The guardians that would protect the defenseless Marines within their war-chariots whilst embarking toward the surface.

Nervousness was something that hadn't touched Adama in the past. He had felt nervous, sure. The first time he flew and even more so in the cockpit of a Mk. II. Even his first battle saw him shaky and unsure of himself behind the stick.

Yet this was altogether something else. He was going to fight on the ground. A real live ground war and he hardly felt he was prepared for such a situation. It left a nasty taste in his mouth, something that hadn't left him alone despite his numerous brushings that morning. What an odd reaction to the stress that clutched him now before this great undertaking.

"Hotshot… Billy," a voice brought him to his senses and he turned to see Lieutenant McGavin approach. She wrapped her arms around him in a caring hug, then lingered there a moment longer than usual. She eased back. "I don't know what to say. Forward air controller, that's quite a thing I guess."

"I guess," he replied, his brow furrowed with his own self-doubt.

"You're going to be fine, Billy," she assured him. "There's a reason the Commander picked you." Despite her attempt to convince Adama, her words didn't even seem to convince herself.

"Yeah. I'm not worried about it," he lied.

"Look, take this," she offered. She yanked one of her dog tags from it's chain and pressed it into Adama's gloved hand. "It's stupid, I know, but just remember that I'll be down there with you every step of the way." She couldn't find the right words to encourage him and she felt helpless. His own confident demeanor seemed fragile now as his eyes betrayed how he truly felt. She wanted to tell him so much more than that, she wanted him to know how much she cared about him… that she loved him.

"Good hunting, hotshot," she finished. She kissed her fingers and placed them over his lips lightly and then willed herself to walk away.

Adama quietly watched her leave. She seemed shaken by the exchange and he worried for her own safety in the coming operation. He swallowed with some difficulty and glanced down at the dog tag he clutched in his palm. He ran his thumb over the engraved name and serial number. He hoped that would not be the last time he saw her.

He unobtrusively made his way toward his own assigned Raptor. The special forces team he was attached to was split between two different birds. As he made his way toward the Raptor he was to board he was approached by a Marine several years his younger. The Marine was obviously MSOB, as he opted to wear a boonie cover rather than a helmet. That was an option only open to the special operators, as normal grunts had to wear all of their personal protective equipment.

The young man had sharp features, and tightly cropped light hair. His eyes were gray and determined and his face was void of any emotion as he halted before the fighter pilot. A service rifle was slung across his chest and he rested his palms on the butt stock.

"Lieutenant Adama, I'm Lance Corporal Tarkov," he introduced himself, offering up one of his gloved hands.

"Glad to meet you, Tarkov," Adama replied, shaking the Lance Corporal's outstretched hand.

"Captain Shepard told me I'm to stay with you through this whole thing. Ensure you don't get hurt," Tarkov told him, he must've been inwardly amused over such an assignment. Or perhaps it was well below him. Despite his youth he was a part of a highly skilled and extremely professional fighting force.

"How nice. A babysitter," Adama grimaced.

"Don't look at it that way, sir. I'm just here to answer any questions you might have regarding ground combat," Tarkov insisted with a slight grin. "Ready to go, sir?" he asked politely.

Adama nodded and followed in trace behind the young Marine operator, who seemed very excited for his mission to begin. The two boarded their crowded Raptor and awaited take off as the cabin door eased shut and the pilot ran through his pre-flight checklists.

**GALACTICA**

**0920 Hrs.**

**CIC**

"Sir, Major Gates reports that all Viper pilots have been briefed and are occupying their fighters at this time. He expects that the first wave of fighters should be ready and in their launch tubes no later than 0930 Hrs.," Oliveira told her commanding officer.

"Good. Tell him I want the second wave of planes ready and waiting just outside the launch tube doors. The second wave needs to be right on their heels with their own launch," Commander Nash replied. Oliveira nodded and began speaking into the handset to relay Commander Nash's orders.

Colonel Faulk and several other officers labored over the combat information table. They were correcting and updating their plotted course, ensuring that their heading was correct. Faulk was excellent at handling the day to day running of the ship, and very skilled at dealing with the helm; keeping the Galactica in it's appropriate position within the fleet's overall formation. That was not an easy task and it required constant updates as the fleet traversed through space.

This allowed Nash to worry about the more pressing tactical concerns, something he felt he now had more time to think about than he would've liked. He turned the situation over and over in his mind, thinking about the necessary firepower to destroy or disable a Basestar.

It wasn't that they couldn't do it, in fact he'd done so many times in his career, but they would now be greatly outnumbered and the whole hope of the operation fell on the idea that the Battlestars could concentrate enough firepower on so few ships right away so as to render them useless early in the battle and hopefully even up the odds. As the battle grew nearer Nash found his will to commit to such a fight waning, however.

Now the waiting game began. Everyone would be positioned in their place just waiting. It was unpleasant, even on the spacious CIC. Crew and officer alike stood hunched over their various consoles and panels, eyes glued to their instruments or to the DRADIS console which displayed the great Colonial Armada that was now enroot to liberate Aerilon.

It wouldn't be long now. The greatest fight in the history of the Colonies would soon be upon them.

**GALACTICA**

**0932 Hrs.**

**Port Side Launch Tubes**

"The board is green, you're ready for launch as soon we get the word, Voodoo," Captain Ariston, the Galactica's LSO told Voodoo as she sat impatiently behind the controls of her Viper.

"Thanks," she responded half-heartedly. She sat quietly in her cockpit but an energy was welling up inside of her. She felt as though she could leap out of her skin or that she might shatter her teeth as she clenched her mouth so tightly in anticipation for this fight.

She didn't like the fact that she'd be flying cover for the Raptors, or close air support for the grunts for that matter. Swatting toasters while they tried to destroy the practically defenseless Marine-filled Raptors was not an appetizing thought. Each time she failed to take one of the bastards down it meant a ship full of young men and women would die. That sort of burden was now resting heavily on her shoulders and she didn't appreciate it.

But she thought of Adama and how he was going to be forced out of his element on the ground. Fighting in a battle that they all walked blindly into. Who knew how many Centurions were on the ground? They could be walking into a complete slaughter, and Adama would be right there in the middle of it. She didn't envy his position, but resolved herself to better her performance on his behalf. "Looks like I'll be flying for the both of us," she mumbled to herself.

She thought about who she was flying this sortie with and was particularly uncomfortable about that situation as well. Spike was a hotheaded idiot and Voodoo was surprised he'd survived this long. Grimm wasn't half-bad, but he was sloppy and Mustang was young and very inexperienced. Then there was SlyPig… Cunningham. The best pilot out there besides her and she could rely on him, but she didn't want to. She didn't want him out there, didn't want him anywhere near her.

Like a sad little puppy dog he'd approached her after the mission briefing, attempting once more to profess something deep and heart felt to her, but she silenced him as she had done previously in the officer's head. He certainly was persistent.

As she left him standing there she didn't bother looking back and that had taken a lot of her strength. She knew he might perceive that as reluctance or twist into something else in his favor if she did look back. She had simply wanted to see what damage her hasty escape had done.

She got a better idea of that later when she saw him somberly climb into his cockpit and perform his pre-flight routine in a very lethargic manner.

She closed her eyes and considered all of her friends. The pilots she'd flown with until now, those that had survived long enough to make a mark on her life. She prayed then, something she never did. Quietly, she whispered words of prayer to Athena and bid her to protect her friends from harm, to give them strength in order to strike at the enemy with total dominance. She was tired of all of the dying and she was terribly worried about who she'd never see again when this was all said and done.

**AERILON**

**0958 Hrs**

**Orbit**

In the many years of history that existed since the twelve tribes expulsion from Kobol, war had been commonplace. Conflict was an extension of politics, after all, and the tribes that formed the twelve colonies had always labored against one another to impose their will. Whether it was to take resources, economic sanctions, or just downright fighting over ethnicity and the like. War had etched itself firmly into human history.

War was as much an art as painting, sculpting or writing. It had inspired much in those fields too. Humanity perfected their killing machines overtime, perhaps priding themselves more with such advances than in any other form of science.

Caprica, Picon, Libran, and even Sagittaron had all enjoyed some form of hegemony at one time or another. Through it all they had vied against one another for political and military dominance, slaughtering themselves by the thousands.

But all those conflicts of the past paled in comparison to what was now on the horizon.

Dozens and dozens of ships now entered the space over Aerilon. Mighty Battlestars flanked by great cruisers and accompanied by speedy frigates and within that protective sphere yet more ships lingered. Troop transports carrying the precious thousands of Marines no whose backs victory would be carried.

Arrayed against them was the Cylon fleet. A great many disc-shaped behemoths, linked together in pairs by a single cylindrical structure in the center so that they appeared to be two great saucers bound together orbited closely to the blue gem they knew to be Aerilon. These great saucers were supplemented by dozens of more ships similar in design but much smaller by comparison.

As they noticed the oncoming Colonial fleet, which now spread itself out into a mighty swathing line, like a great eagle spreading it's wings, they deployed their fighter compliments.

Hundreds upon hundreds of small wing-like craft swarmed from fighter bays along the great discs called Basestars, intent on destroying the interlopers.

From the Battlestars an answer was fielded. Formations of Vipers rocketed forth from the bellies of these fine ships, propelled from their launch tubes via magnetic catapults. They gathered around their majestic Battlestars, forming into precise formations before providing a screen beyond the long line the fleet now presented.

From behind this line many hundreds of Raptors now accelerated. Each broke into it's own small formation, accompanied by flights of Vipers. The Raptors were unarmed, no rocket pods adorned their exterior. Instead all weight was dropped in favor of speed, which would be necessary in order to deliver their human cargo groundside.

As the Cylons noticed this fleet of Raptors rocketing toward the planet they split their own forces. A small contingent of their own fighters would pursue this Raptor force, which the Cylons rightly believed contained an invasion force.

Ahead of the fleet the two great clouds of aircraft were rapidly approaching one another.

"This is Galactica CAG, all fighters arm HD-70 Lightning Javelin Missiles," Gates spoke calmly into his wireless as his fingers automatically armed his Viper's compliment of anti-fighter missiles. "Fire on my mark."

Many voices replied accordance with the order as Archie Gates voice echoed over the wireless of every pilot within the Galactica's air group.

The HD-70 Javelin missile was the most commonly used and widely equipped anti-fighter missile in the Colonial fleets stockpiles. It was capable of medium-range air-to-air engagements and with the Viper MK II capable of locking onto multiple targets it could fire it's entire compliment of missiles almost instantly.

Most pilots preferred the greater assurance they got from their cannons, as the Cylons were often able to disrupt the Javelin's guidance systems and avoid a positive lock, thus avoiding destruction by the missiles. But in this case the plan was for all pilots to fire a volley of missiles at the approaching Raiders, and hope for the best. The idea was to throw everything they possibly could at the Cylons.

"Fire!" Gates ordered, depressing the top button on his flight stick. Moments later all four missiles mounted on the hard points under his wings were propelled forward by a hissing roar of flame. They streaked forward, followed closely by the missiles of all of Galactica's air group, which mixed in among the hundreds of other missiles as every Viper from every ship fired as well.

"Weapons free, weapons free! Engage at will!" Gates shouted, following up the missile shots.

The willowy contrails from the missiles streaked toward the massive cloud of Raiders, which now maneuvered smartly like a mass of locusts eager to avoid the exterminators poison. Many of the missiles struck targets however, and dozens of orange balls of flame erupted within the cloud of Cylon fighters.

The distance between the foes began to wane and as the two groups closed headlong toward one another the familiar sight of red tracer fire was ignited all along the great range of Vipers. That fire was quickly replied to by the blue-hue of Cylon gunfire. Then the two mighty formations crashed into one another, and the fighters broke up into their individual deadly dances as human pilots contested with a trio of machines ordered to do one thing: kill everything.

_"I've got him! I've got him!" _

_"Fire damn it!" _

_"There, there he is right there." _

_"Get him off of me."_

_"Oh Gods, he's got me, he's got--" _

_"Stay with your wingman!" _

_"Don't let the bastard get behind you."_

_"Weapons malfunction, frak!" _

The endless stream of pilot chatter now echoed over the wireless as desperate pilots talked over one another in the hopes that a friend or wingman may save them from an untimely demise, or to celebrate a worthy kill against a dastardly foe.

Commander Nash watched in the CIC, tension gripping him as his chest tightened at the sounds of the harrowing fight outside the confines of the CIC. His eyes remained glued to the DRADIS console. It was muddled with so many transponders and contacts it seemed impossible to make out.

"Lieutenant Oliveira, narrow our DRADIS field to what's to our direct front. Let's see if we can clean out some of that clutter," he ordered.

"Aye, aye, sir," she replied and quickly made the adjustment at her own station. The DRADIS view changed, as the focus point became less about the entire battle and more about the region directly ahead of the Galactica. A place her fighters were currently engaged within and a sector they'd be slugging it out with any Cylon Basestars.

"Chaos, Havoc, Dice, and Banzai form up on my wing. Keep it loose, let's shoot and scoot," Captain Hilarion announced over the wireless.

With expert precision and surprising speed the Vipers that Achilles had tasked were formed up in a loose pentagonal formation with Achilles' Viper at the head. Like a flock of birds flying through a heavy storm they made their way through the destructive battle surrounding them. They glided easily as they covered one another, the red pulse of their forward firing weapons glowing in the darkness of surrounding space.

Handfuls of Raiders fell to their calculated and seamlessly executed maneuvers and it was clear this was a tactic often practiced in training.

"There goes another one! Hey at this rate we'll have this fight wrapped up in a few minutes," Dice gloated as another flying-wing was struck along the dorsal portion of it's fuselage, bursting into flames and showering the formation with it's debris.

"Stay focused, Dice," Achilles scolded his younger pilot. "On me Primus, keep it up," he urged. His Viper banked hard and executed a steep turn, moving hastily to assist another of Galactica's squadrons. His pilots followed in trace, throttling forward and dodging the incoming enemy fire that attempted to down the group who was responsible for the destruction of so many Raiders.

"I want updates on our Raptors. What's their E.T.A.?" Commander Nash, turning to face Oliveira at her station.

"They should be entering the atmosphere in just a few moments, sir," she replied as she hurriedly scanned over some of the incoming information. She was nearly inundated with the stuff, but managed to shuffle through it fast enough to gather the information that Commander Nash requested with great haste.

_"Basestars are engaging us."_

_"Where is the frakking fleet?" _

_"Get in here and help us, oh Gods!!" _

_"Stay calm the fleet is maneuvering into position."_

_"They're slaughtering us!"_

_"Stow that shit and concentrate on the fighters."_

_"He's down, I hit him, I hit him. What the frak?" _

_"Keep firing, don't let up."_

_"Vigilantes move to engage new flight of Raiders detected at bearing 879er, carom 206."_

_"Confirmed moving to engage."_

_"Demons redeploy in a fighter screen to support the Nemesis, she's engaging!"_

_"Copy we're on it!"_

The chatter continued unfettered as the first elements of the Colonial fleet began to engage the numerically superior foe. As was planned the Battlestars began focusing their firepower on selected targets in their sectors, hoping the overwhelming firepower would quickly destroy or disable the Cylon Baseships and even up the odds.

"Helm come about twenty-three degrees starboard, fifteen degrees up-angle. All ahead full," Commander Nash ordered, his cane held tightly in his hand.

"Aye, sir. Twenty-three degrees starboard, fifteen degrees up-angle, all ahead full," the helmsman parroted Commander Nash's command.

"Weapons I want concentrated salvo fire from all main batteries on that Basestar at bearing 871, carom 115. Point defenses are to focus on the fighters. Keep the skies around us clear if you please, Mr. Edgars." Nash addressed the weapons officer of the Galactica.

"Aye, aye, sir," Lieutenant Edgars responded, then quickly went to work on his assigned task.

Streaks of tracer fire sputtered past the Galactica as several Raiders attempted to engage the hulking Battlestar. Point defense turrets began engaging these fighters, and puffs of smoke that spewed searing hot shrapnel began to erupt all along the flanks of the Galactica. The Raiders broke contact, hoping to avoid the deadly bursts. In addition to that several Vipers now moved to swat any bothersome flies from the Galactica's path.

As the Basestar came within range the Galactica's main batteries arrayed all along it's dorsal axis turned and began to fire. Heavy shots rained across the fight ahead and struck their targets, small splashes of flame painted the hull of the Basestar as the Galactica and Nemesis concentrated their heaviest guns on it. It replied in kind, firing salvo after salvo of anti-ship missiles.

It split the difference between the two Battlestars assailing it and as a result it's first couple of salvos were ineffective at best. The point defenses and firing solutions that provided the protective umbrella around both Battlestars were enough to shoot down the incoming projectiles for the most part.

Seeing this, the Cylon Basestar adjusted it's fire and began to concentrate it's own withering firepower on the Galactica.

The CIC was jolted and everyone within it staggered momentarily from the jarring blast as several rockets struck their targets.

"Keep up the fire, Mr. Edgars," Commander Nash commended his weapons officer's accurate firing solutions. "Damage report, Colonel."

Colonel Faulk hastily made his way to the damage control panel. "Weapons had little affect on us, all panels are still in the green, no significant damage to report," Faulk told him.

"Good. Lieutenant Oliveira, update on our Raptors please," Nash inquired, as another blast jarred the crew of the Galactica.

"They're entering the atmosphere now, sir," she told him happily, sweat already gleaning on her forehead.

"May the Gods bless their journey," Commander Nash muttered just as Colonel Faulk rejoined him at the combat information table.

Adama closed his eyes tightly. It wasn't his first atmospheric re-entry. Not by a long shot. But it was his first in a defenseless transport vessel that was being fired at by dozens of angry Cylons. He'd seen streaks of fire cascade by the Raptor's canopy and he'd heard the frantic radio chatter up in the cockpit. Other Raptors had been destroyed, so far he'd just been lucky enough it was not his.

"Hold tight we're hitting the ionosphere," their pilot reported. The Raptor began shaking violently as it began it's descent into the upper four layers of the atmosphere.

"Got to love this part," Sergeant Costigan laughed, glancing over to see Adama's discomfort.

Outside the descending Raptors the fight to destroy them had ceased, albeit momentarily. The Vipers assigned to protecting them had done a decent job, as only a handful of Raptors had been lost. But now, as the ships descended planetside there would be no ability to attack them. The Raiders were re-entering the atmosphere as well, and despite their close proximity to the invasion force they would be helpless to attack until they re-entered the atmosphere.

It was a momentary reprieve from the fight for their survival. In the same vein it was an awkward feeling, as all the Raptor pilots were aware that Raiders close at hand and that as soon as they were free of re-entry it would be a race to destroy the Raptors before the Vipers could reacquire their targets and engage. It took a great deal of trust and reliance in one another to conduct such operations.

"I've got a tally-ho on a cluster of three bandits high and to my left," Voodoo reported.

"Copy that, Voodoo, I see them," SlyPig replied. "As soon as we break through the atmosphere we re-engage and keep the bastards off our boys and girls. You copy that Spike?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Spike responded snidely.

"Cool it, Spike," Grimm interjected.

"Can it, Grimm. Nobody needs to tell me how to fly," Spike snorted.

"C'mon Spike, we're all on the same side here," Mustang offered meekly, her voice soaked in doubt.

"You can shut it too, rookie," Spike said mockingly. "I've got a handle on this, I'm not a baby."

Voodoo just shook her head disapprovingly. Well, at least the others were trying. Her and Cunningham had obviously been the most effective on the fight to the planet, as they both splashed a trio of Raiders. The others had managed to destroy a target of their own as well, even Mustang despite her inexperience and nervousness.

Back in orbit the fight intensified as the full force of the Colonial Fleet was being brought to bear on the Cylon defensive force. Salvos of heavy cannon fire streaked through the darkened space as super heated high explosive shells sped toward their targets.

Anti-ship missiles past them in transit, also headed for a target in order to deliver their payload.

"Violent decompression on deck one frame thirty and thirty one," Colonel Faulk reported. "Fire in the aft compartments, starboard side."

"Get damage control teams down there immediately, they've got to stop the fire from creeping up to magazine three and blowing us all to Elysium," Commander Nash ordered smartly.

"Yes, sir. I've dispatched two teams to combat the fire in the rear compartments. Another team is suiting up in their EVA gear to have a look at the damage that caused the decompressions and get us a casualty figure from deck one," Colonel Faulk informed the commanding officer.

"Very well. Mr. Edgars, give me a status report on the damage caused to our Cylon friend," Nash asked, eager to hear of the damage to the Cylon Basestar which the Galactica and Nemesis engaged together.

"Sir, Viper pilots are reporting good effects on target and severe damage to the lower half the Baseship. It shouldn't be much longer," Edgars responded.

Outside the Galactica more rockets detonated, but thanks to the point defenses they didn't hit their mark. The explosion and change in pressure, however, caused the Galactica to shake violently as yet more missiles exploded.

The Cylon Baseship had soaked up about as much damage as it was able. Bits of the lower half of the two-disc flying Basestar began to breakaway. Huge, smoking chunks were torn off the ship's frame and the gunners from both Battlestars aimed for the open spaces in the hull.

The follow up shots caused horrendous damage as the high explosive shells collided with exposed decks from the Cylon ship. Explosions erupted all along the lower section of Basestar's hull. The ship seemed to lose all power as it's forward propulsion halted and the massive ship drifted along, soaking up more damage from the combined assault.

Eventually a fire spread throughout the Cylon capitol ship, reached either fuel lines or magazines where ammunition was stored and it exploded in a blinding display of fire and debris. Primus squadron shielded their eyes from the blast as sounds of cheering echoed ceaselessly throughout the air groups that had been pitted against that ship.

But where one Basestar was destroyed, there were three more to pick up where it left off. The Nemesis and Galactica were unable to combine their firepower as they were now being divided and driven away from one another. The Nemesis was dueling with two partially damaged Basestars, while the Galactica squared off against another in pristine condition.

The fight was clearly becoming more desperate as similar scenes began to develop all along the Colonial fleet's line. The Battlestars were simply not dealing enough damage fast enough, and even with help from the cruisers and frigates the Basestars were simply taking too long to destroy. Now the Cylons began to use their superior numbers, dividing clusters of the Colonial fleet and isolating the Battlestars in order to use the very same tactic the Colonials had hoped would be successful.

Barrage after barrage of missiles continued to rocket toward damaged Colonial ships, unmolested as they struck home and caused fissures in the scorched outer armor of each ship.

Several frigates moved to support the Nemesis, which was now taking such a beating that her crew was scrambling to contain the severe damage she was incurring.

"Sir, message from Commander Green. He requests immediate assistance as soon as we can render it," Petty Officer Cameron told Commander Nash worriedly just as another explosion rocked everyone inside the CIC.

"Understood. Please inform Commander Green we shall make way to his position with all possible haste once we've dealt with this Basestar," Nash said back. He was not hopeful, however. The Cylon ship would likely stand up to quite a beating before retiring or being destroyed and Nash worried that even with frigate support the Nemesis would not last long.

"Yes, sir," Cameron acknowledged, immediately relaying the message.

_"They're too many of these frakkers!"_

_"I can't see through all this smoke."_

_"Where's Sandman?"_

_"Watch your six, Gods damn it!" _

_"Where? Where?"_

_"There he is, tally-ho on two bandits, three o'clock high."_

_"I see 'em, I see 'em!" _

_"Banzai engage!" _

_"I don't have a shot."_

_"Take the shot."_

_"Get out of there, disengage if you don't have the shot."_

_"Banzai disengage I've got it."_

_"Five seconds, give me five seconds!"_

_"Negative, Banzai, disengage."_

_"Five more seconds!"_

_"Disengage!"_

_"Damn! I'm off."_

_"I'm in. I've got him… you're not getting away you frakkin' toaster." _

_"Boom! Nice. Splash one bandit!"_

_"Gods, how much more damage can the Nemesis take?" _

The chaos outside the large Battlestars hardly seemed like a place anyone could effectively pilot a small craft. Between the debris, streaks of tracer fire, masses of fighters racing to and fro, and dozens upon dozens of missiles searching for targets it was amazing anyone survived at all. It was a mess, a complete soup of carnage and destruction.

Those who had been fortunate enough to eject before their fighter was destroyed now drifted idly through space, praying to all of the Gods in hopes that either an SAR bird would rescue them, or at the very least they would not be killed by the raging battle that took place around them.

But there were no SAR birds to be had, the first wave of Raptors had still not made landfall, leaving the Colonial fleet overhead desperate to protect them.

From the clouds a mighty formation of Raptors came screaming down. Like meteorites from the heavens their heat shields burned from friction caused by the atmosphere.

But down they came, intent on delivering their cargo planetside and kicking off the ground war. As they finally broke free of the atmosphere the flames surrounding their ships sputtered out and the majority of the smoke dissipated.

"Here we go, hold on!" Adama's Raptor pilot instructed as he immediately began combat maneuvering to avoid the Cylon Raiders that screeched past engaging the Vipers tasked with defending the transports.

"I'm on them," Voodoo announced, maneuvering behind the trio of bandits she had identified during their descent.

"Copy Voodoo, I've got your six," SlyPig reported as he pulled in behind her Viper MK II.

Atmospheric flight was a different beast than what these pilots were most accustomed to, the vacuum of space. In the earliest parts of flight training everyone started with the basics. That meant learning to fly in a prop driven aircraft on the surface of a celestial body. But they had spent the majority of their careers fighting in space, not on gravity laden planets.

This introduced a slew of new issues, as each maneuver made resulted in a greater degree of Gs each pilot pulled. In addition to that, the Viper's were far less maneuverable than in space.

The Raider enjoyed a greater surface area for it's mighty wingspan, resulting in greater turning capabilities and the upper hand in maneuverability versus the Viper, despite the Viper's greater thrust-to-weight ratio and ability climb fast. The gravity put stress on the Viper's airframe as the pilot's were forced to utilize their RCS thrusters just to supplement the thrust necessary to stay in the air and be effective.

As it was, the Viper wasn't specifically meant for atmospheric combat, even though it was capable of such. That meant that even skilled pilots found it difficult to effectively engage Cylon Raiders, who were unaffected by pulling too many Gs, and were capable of a tighter turning radius.

Nevertheless, Voodoo engaged the trio of Raiders with absolute confidence in her skills and rightly so. Her first stream of gunfire riddled her target with lead. The fighter wobbled from the damage and smoke burst from it's right engine. It sputtered downward, rapidly losing altitude.

The two remaining fighters broke their tight formation, each branching off in opposite directions.

"SlyPig you take the one to the left, I've got the one on the right," Voodoo said without thought.

"Roger that," Cunningham responded. The two Vipers broke from their own formation and pursued their individual targets.

Meanwhile more Raiders began accosting the Raptors which were now at a low altitude attempting to map the surface of Aerilon, hopefully avoiding any anti-aircraft fire. Initially they were successful in this, as the area they passed housed no Cylon units. However, as they drew nearer to the planet's capital, Areopagus, they began to encounter an increasingly large amount of triple-A fire.

"Things are going to get choppy!" Adama's pilot called out. The young Viper jock braced himself as the bulky Raptor began to fly through a gauntlet of gunfire. Each cloud of smoke sent out dozens of pieces of shrapnel that could tear through the Raptor's exterior hull with ease. The fire jarred the ship and shook it violently tossing around those inside.

The Marines steadied themselves and did their best to banish any thought of a fiery death from their minds. After all, they had no hand in this. It wouldn't be up to them whether or not they lived or died. Their lives were in the hands of their pilots, or the Gods, whomever they believed in more. It was hell for the nerves, as there was no worse feeling than being unable to participate in your own defense, but they endured the hardship in silence. The occasional quiet prayer was muttered here and there, as some of the more religious Marines entrusted their wellbeing to the divine.

Despite those prayers ships were lost. Enough to dwindle the Marine's numbers and with every downed Raptor the journey became harder for those left remaining. The triple-A positions began to retarget their heavy firepower on the Raptors that survived. Each of the transports were taking flak bursts, and it seemed there were plenty of Raptors that, although still flew, would probably not be able to make the return journey for a second wave of Marines thanks to considerable hull breaches.

The Triple-A fire was unexpectedly high. This was problematic for the attack as the fleet had not anticipated such a high volume of AA fire. The Marines and the pilots flying them now wondered what other things the fleet had not anticipated. Worry spread through the young and inexperienced as the idea of walking into a slaughterhouse now materialized in their minds. The fleet had doomed them all. Improper planning and a lack of adequate intelligence was going to get them all killed! How could their leaders submit them to such a thing?

Their fears were quieted as reassurances and words of encouragement spread throughout each Raptor. Experienced, battle-hardened NCOs made sure their young Marines had a clear understanding of their objectives. They reminded them of their proud lineage as Marines, and encouraged them to tear apart the Cylons once they hit the deck.

Their words of encouragement were reinforced by veteran officers, who together with the NCOs had every Marine frothing at the mouth and chomping at the bit to tear off some centurion's head planetside. Excellent small unit leadership had narrowly averted widespread panic.

But no amount of words could change the events that transpired from the planet to the fight overhead. With the first shots of the battle the Colonial fleet had made an impressive opening gambit. But now, as the Cylons brought their full force to bear against a smaller attacking force, the cracks in the fleets daring and ambitious plan began to show through. The question now was not how long until they'd achieved victory, but whether the skill, leadership, and courage of the men and women fighting could achieve victory at all. And ultimately, how many would die to make that happen?


	10. In the Thick

_Author's Note: All right, so I've been back at the story with the announcement of Blood And Chrome. I thought I would continue my own version of the First Cylon War. Since beginning this story more on the universe has been expanded upon with the show Caprica, so now we have some more details about the colonies. As I had made mention of her earlier in the story the capital of Aerilon was Areopagus, a city of my own creation, but now I am aware that it is Gaoth and so I'll be retconning the city name and referring to it as Gaoth henceforth in the story. Enjoy!_

**Chapter Ten: In the Thick**

**Aerilon**

**1020 Hrs**

An explosion rocked the Raptor as it maneuvered through the cloud of triple-A fire that creased across the skies of Aerilon. The pilot did an admirable job of holding the bird steady, however, and Adama thought at that moment that he'd need to find out who this Raptor jockey was and buy him a drink when and if he survived this insane mission. Another blast of gunfire burst past the port side of the Raptor, the streak gleamed by the nose of the Raptor and Adama caught a glimpse of it even from his position in the rear cabin. The sight of it terrified him, which he found surprising. _Gods_, he thought, _it would only take one of those to cook us all alive_. His heart was racing and he had some difficulty swallowing. He adjusted the helmet he wore, unused to its seemingly cumbersome weight.

Looking at the Marines whom he flew with he felt embarrassed. None seemed to show the slightest sign of uneasy nerves. But perhaps that was to be expected. He wondered how many hostile drops these men and women had done. Not to mention the fact that these were the best of the best; they were the tier one operators- the special forces boys and girls. He glanced over in time to see Sergeant Costigan beaming at him with a large smile emblazoned upon his face. "This is the best part, sir!" the Sergeant declared, just as a flak burst that was particularly close rocked the Raptor, sending a tumultuous tremor through the airframe which rattled them all considerably.

Again Adama swallowed heavily, shifting his position as best he could in the cramped compartment space. He saw as Cpl Leclair took in a deep breath and exhaled. She didn't seem to be enjoying the flight anymore than he was. "How many drops is this for you?" he asked in his rusty tone, attempting to take his mind off the possibility of a fiery demise.

"I've done a dozen or so, but this is the roughest by far," she exclaimed with a smirk. "I hate flying, though. Doesn't matter if it's a combat insertion or a vacation flight to Argentum bay." She chuckled slightly at the remark. She hadn't been on a vacation for a long time and the thought of it now seemed wonderful.

The Marines couldn't fully realize the intense battle that was took place all around their transport craft. Each Raptor pilot flew low, only a couple hundred feet off the deck as they zigzagged back and forth attempting to dodge incoming triple-A fire from the ground as well as deadly accurate streams of kinetic weapons fire from Raiders which continued to hairy their progress.

By now Voodoo had honed in on one of the Raiders that had attempted to elude her after they'd broken through the atmosphere. She could immediately feel the difference of atmospheric flight as every turn and roll jostled her aircraft to a far greater extent than space flight ever had. She also found it a challenge to maintain appropriate airspeed to properly engage the Raiders. Each time her thrust was reduced too greatly in tight turns she was forced to utilize her RCS thrusters to compensate and avoid an engine stall. This meant that the large, wing-shaped Raider was able to perform tighter turns and escape her nearly every time she maneuvered behind it. Now, however, she slowed her air speed and fired up her RCS thrusters dropping back into lag pursuit. Voodoo relaxed her turn posture and the distance to her target increased, but she was able to get a lock with her HD-70 Lightning Javelin missile. The Raider must have been alerted to the attempt as it banked hard, but a slight nudge of her bird's nose to the right kept the Raider in front of her. She watched as the missile sped off towards its target, leaving a smoky contrail in its wake. The Raider attempted a snap roll, but the missile struck the rear starboard portion of its fuselage. It tumbled downward, smoke billowing behind it, before it slammed into a field below, exploding. A minor grin appeared upon her face, but there was hardly time to celebrate as she was forced to reengage and continue to protect the defenseless Raptors.

In the meantime Cunningham was sparring continuously with his own Cylon aircraft. The two fighters mapped the surface- the Raider weaved left and right dodging stream after stream of gunfire from SlyPig. He cursed under his breath, aggravated by each failed attempt. _C'mon man_, he thought to himself, _get it together_. He shook his head and wet his dried lips. He narrowed his eyes on the target as the Cylon Raider righted itself and flew on a straight vector toward a small hill. SlyPig increased his thrust and he felt the Gs as his Voram turbo-thrust engines launched him forward. He grit his teeth and concentrated, focusing all of his attention on the irritating bogey that had eluded him thus far. SlyPig positioned his velocity vector in such a way as to get the Raider within in his guns envelope. He turned ever slightly left to nudge his Viper further into the Raider's turn, attempting lead pursuit on the bandit. Moments later he acquired the Raider within his envelope and opened fire with his 30mm Thraxons. To his dismay, however, the Raider again avoided the gunfire. It performed a maximum G turn to the left then banked hard and away from SlyPig. The maneuver probably would have made a human pilot pass out, but the Cylons didn't have to worry about such things. He jerked back in his seat, his head and eyes followed the Raider's escape as it rocketed past him in almost the opposite direction. "Frak!" he cursed. When he brought his eyes back to his direct front he realized he was about to collide with the small hill the Raider had lured him toward. He immediately banked hard to the right and he could feel the blood being forced from his brain as his eyesight began to dim. He let out a groan, fighting against the Gs as his Viper veered hard to the right, narrowly avoiding the small hill. He was low enough that the force from his passing ripped leaves from branches and branches from trees.

The Raider pulled into a position behind Spike and he was immediately pinged by a radar spike. "Voodoo, SlyPig, somebody- anybody- I've just been pinged get this bandit off me!" he cried out as he banked hard into the Raiders pursuit angle, attempting to escape. He dropped his altitude and increased his thrust attempting to gain airspeed, but the Raider was still behind him, cutting him off with a perfect pursuit angle. "I can't- I can't shake him!" Spike shouted over the wireless.

"Hang on, I'm coming!" Cunningham responded, desperate to assist his comrade, especially considering it was the same Raider that had just escaped his assault.

Spike waggled his wings then changed his flight path. He crossed the front vector of the Raider in the opposite direction and again increased his acceleration. The two began performing a scissors maneuver on a horizontal plane. Each aircraft crossed one another as they attempted to get on each others six. However, each time they crossed each other their angle was too far off, preventing a shot. Spike was pulling significant Gs now, though, and he would not be able to sustain it for long.

Cunningham could hear Spike struggling over the wireless. His breathing increased and no doubt he was beginning to lose consciousness.

"Ohh, shit!" he heard Spike announce and then the wireless went silent.

In the distance he saw Spike's Viper immediately break off from its flight pattern; its nose dipped low and it began to lose altitude. It was as if the entire aircraft had gone limp- Spike had to be unconscious. The Raider corrected its own flight angle and again put itself squarely behind Spike's Viper.

"Damn it!" Cunningham cursed, willing his plane to go faster, though he knew it was no good. From far off he saw the contrail of a rocket fired by the Raider. It screamed across the blue skies of Aerilon before slamming into the falling Viper. Spike's aircraft ignited immediately and exploded in a great ball of flames and debris. He didn't even hear him call out over the wireless. "Voodoo, we lost Spike…"

"Copy, standby," Voodoo announced, too busy finishing off yet another bandit that was attacking Mustang. "Splash one more," she reported.

"Ah, thank the Gods you got here in time," Mustang responded catching her breath. Suddenly her control panel lit up. "Frak! I've got a launch alert!" she immediately began searching outside of her cockpit, desperately seeking out the launch direction of the SAM that was fired at her. She knew if she was unable to find it then she was as good as dead.

"Where did it come from?" Voodoo demanded.

"I don't know, I don't know I can't see it! Where is it!" Mustang cried out. The fear was evident in her voice. There were only two options to avoid a SAM- run or evade, but she had to know the attack direction first.

"There! There three o'clock low, break off to your nine, low and punch it!" Voodoo ordered.

Mustang immediately began the maneuver, popping her chaff as soon as she began. It was a rookie move; she should have waited until the missile was within two or three miles of her. It was a mistake born of fear and inexperience. The missile rocketed through the silvered nylon filaments, its radar tracking in tact. Mustang was still banking hard, but not enough to evade the missile. The mistake cost her her life. The missile intercepted her as her angle was not steep enough. Her starboard Voram exploded and the Viper began to spiral uncontrollably downward. Voodoo and SlyPig could hear the young rookie screaming over the wireless just before she was cut out as her plane exploded. Voodoo let out a burdened sigh.

Meanwhile the Marine-ferrying Raptors had broken free of the triple-A net that had been slung by the Cylons. Few Raiders remained now to challenge them. Most had either been destroyed or were being engaged by their Viper escorts. At least a dozen of the transport vessels had been lost, however, and that would leave the Marine's numbers significantly depleted. Any loss was a major one when they were unaware of what they were advancing into.

"Hang on, we're nearing the LZ," Adama's pilot warned. Adama could see dozens upon dozens of Raptors flying toward a sprawling open valley that lay before a pair of rolling hills covered in thick grass through the cracked bubble canopy. Many of the Raptors were damaged. He could see engines out, or smoke streaking behind them and he wondered how many would be able to exit the atmosphere and go back for another wave of Marines. He glanced around the interior of the cabin he occupied and immediately realized his own Raptor would not be among the flights returning. There were far too many puncture holes in the fuselage.

**Aerilon**

**1047 Hrs**

**LZ Lima**

Adama's Raptor set down upon the surface of Aerilon and the young pilot let out a heavy sigh of relief. They'd made it onto the deck, a feat he thought could not be accomplished only a few moments ago. The cabin door hissed and opened and the Marines within immediately piled out.

"Let's go, sir," the young Lance Corporal Tarkov announced, startling Adama from his thoughts.

As he deplaned he looked around to see an amazing sight. Dozens of Raptors were performing the very same thing his had just done. Marines disembarked from each craft and immediately began to file out and setup security in a three hundred and sixty degree circle around their landing site. A large bulk of men and women began to form toward the north and Adama could already hear the crackle of gunfire and heavy weapons. He followed Tarkov over to a collapsed tree and took a knee behind the debris as Tarkov had done. The Marine had his weapon up and trained to the east, but Adama didn't feel like emulating him. He held the same service rifle, an M-19, but he assumed he was nowhere near as skilled in using it. He saw two Vipers race by overhead and wondered if he knew the pilots.

Captain Shepard immediately began to corral the men and women of his MSOB team and as Adama and Tarkov joined them they set out heading north towards the gunfire. They were spread out in a tactical column and advanced at what seemed like a leisurely pace to Adama. He saw as other Marines, the grunts, dashed forward in groups or clusters attempting to rendezvous with their units and press the attack on the Cylons. Why weren't these Marines as eager to get into the fight?

As they moved forward the frontline of the ground war came into view. Ahead of them hundreds of Marines were taking cover behind a stonewall erected by farmers some years ago. They were firing up onto the hill where several Cylon emplacements were positioned. Two Landram fighting vehicles attempted to push forward continuously firing their 20mm cannons at the Cylon's entrenched positions. However, there was a Cylon recoilless rifle position firing at them and both decided to withdraw for fear of being knocked out of the fight.

Gunfire intensified on the left side of the hill as a group of Marines attempted to push forward despite the heavy fire. Marines bounded forward, some would lay down and provide suppressing fire while others would dash forward and take up a position to start firing, then the others Marines were move forward under that protective umbrella of fire. The process was repeated only a few times before the troops were forced to withdraw due to the heavy and accurate gunfire from the Cylons. A half dozen bodies lay writhing in the field the others had barely escaped.

A small command area had been set up in a cluster of trees approximately a klick behind the main line. There Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Barrett of the Colonial Marine Corps and commanding officer of the 19th Infantry Battalion was coordinating the efforts of his companies with a retinue of staff officers and enlisted aides. Barrett had a commanding presence. He had a strong build, piercing blue eyes and a bald head. He looked fearsome and every bit the warrior the Marines claimed to be.

Captain Shepard and Gunny Clay approached the field desk that the Colonel had erected and now hovered over. He and his assistants were glaring at a map of the area. Adama and Tarkov trailed behind Clay and Shepard.

Barrett immediately noticed the arrival of the two MSOB Marines. He quickly deduced where they came from just by the difference in the gear they wore and weapons that they carried. "What can I do for you, Captain?" the Colonel asked almost irritated. He never really cared for the SF types, himself a straight-legged grunt his entire career. He felt they believed themselves without equal and never liked the fact that the Corps would spend all that money on high-speed, low drag training for a few while neglecting the many who marched in the ranks of the general infantry.

"Only here to get an assessment of the area of operation, sir," Captain Shepard told him seriously. The MSOB officer removed his ball cap and wiped the sweat from his brow. He glanced down at the map, immediately noting known friendly and enemy units in the adjacent grid squares. This was an important aspect of operating in the area. He had to increase his own situational awareness, be alerted to adjacent units both friendly and hostile along his planned patrol route to the objective.

"Fairly simple, Gaoth is approximately six or seven klicks north of our pos; the Cylons have several small contingents of troops reinforcing positions for the next couple of klicks. These positions are all in various levels of completion- it seems the Cylons haven't had enough time to reinforce themselves. So that is the good news. The bad news is the 2nd Light Armored Battalion was supposed to be advancing on our eastern axis of advance, but only one of their birds made it. Those two Landrams you see over there are all that's left…" Barrett paused for a moment at the thought of all of the Marines that had died from the 2nd LAB. It was staggering and their assets would be sorely missed.

"Now, this hill in front of us has substantial defenses erected into its face. We assume it's the best defense they've constructed thus far. They've got solid control of this chokepoint covering these two major roads that lead to Gaoth.. The Cylons are dug in pretty good. Heavy machine guns are covering a substantial sector of fire along the front of the hills as well as covering both roads and smaller trails that lead beyond the hill. I'd push our light armor up on them, but I've already got reports that the Centurions up there have anti-armor capabilities and I'm loathe to commit the only armor assets I've got," the Colonel exclaimed with some frustration.

"We were about to call in some close air support, but our FAC was killed and currently I haven't got any comm with the Vipers overhead," Barrett continued. He waved errantly at a fly. A bead of sweat that had accumulated alongside his bald head trickled down his jaw line.

"Sir, I'm a Forward Air Controller," Lieutenant Adama announced immediately. Captain Shepard shot an angry glare at the pilot, as if he was completely out of place by revealing that fact.

"Is that right?" Barrett questioned interestedly. He narrowed his eyes on the young pilot.

"Yes, sir. Lieutenant William 'Husker' Adama of the Battlestar Galactica," Adama relayed with some pride. Tarkov cracked a smile behind his charge.

Lieutenant Colonel Barrett seemed to lapse into a moment of thought then, just as Captain Shepard began to speak. "My people and I are headed northwest to a target just outside the city's limits. We won't be joining your advance as it isn't necessary for us to reach our objective. We should be okay if we trace the hill far enough west and swing around behind the Cylons. I'm confident we can avoid any patrols and reach our target location," the Captain explained. He was intentionally very vague.

"Now wait a minute, Captain, I need every able body I have on the deck to push these Cylons off that hill. It's of the utmost importance we arrive in Gaoth by tonight. We're to secure the space port there, fortify, and await reinforcements to carry out follow on operations," Barrett told him seriously. His piercing eyes glared at the MSOB Captain.

"That's your mission, sir. Mine is an entirely different one," the Captain told him with gravitas. Shepard never liked dealing with higher ups when orders were conflicting. He always showed the necessary amount of respect and decorum, but it irritated him endlessly that any officer over him in rank thought that they could commandeer him and his people for whatever task they wanted. That wasn't how it worked and he was well aware that most of the officers that tried such things knew that.

"I don't care, Captain," Colonel Barrett told him unapologetically. "I want your FAC. Without CAS I'm not dislodging the Cylons off that hill. If I'm not dislodging them off that hill I'm not advancing into Gaoth, you tracking?"

"Yes, sir. I'm tracking. That's not my mission, however. This FAC is an MSOB asset and will be utilized in that capacity only. I have orders-" Shepard was cut off immediately by the Colonel who had obviously had enough of the uncooperative special forces operator.

"I don't give a frak about your orders, Captain. Out here on the ground things change. You adapt to the situation and you make do. Now I need your FAC and I'm going to get him. Do you understand? After we've pushed the Cylons off that hill you can go on your merry way with whatever little mission it is you have planned. Check?" Colonel Barrett glared at the Captain- anger evident enough in his eyes. His stout Sergeant Major stood nearby, emulating his commanding officers attitude.

Captain Shepard felt his face redden. He was angry as well. The two officers stared at one another in silence. One might have thought it was a stand off and that very soon one might draw his weapon on the other. He wanted to tell the Colonel to go frak himself. But that would only escalate the situation. The Colonel might try and keep Adama there by ordering him directly and thus causing a dispute for Adama. Shepard's own people would never follow an order that wasn't his own, but he had no idea about Adama. He was a rookie, after all, and he might just see the importance of following the higher rank despite their orders that superseded such things. _Damn him for announcing what he was_, Shepard thought. He let out a sigh. "Very well, sir. We'll help you get the toasters off that hill," he relented.

Barrett was happy that the Captain had seen things his way. He was not a man to boast, so his face did not betray this fact. He knew the Captain was biting down on his own pride to let this happen and perhaps he thought that this was a dick measuring contest between himself and the MSOB Captain, but to think so would be foolish. The Colonel didn't care about the mission the SF people were on, but he needed to take the hill and he meant to do so with as little of his own casualties as possible. He couldn't stand losing men and having a FAC was a significant force multiplier that could lessen the toll upon his people significantly. He wasn't going to allow some cloak and dagger mission that could most likely wait lead to more of his personnel being killed.

"Thank you, Captain," he said in earnest.

The group of SF Marines jogged forward and the sound of gunfire only intensified. Adama could feel a lump forming in his throat and a new type of apprehension he'd never felt before. He could see the hill just ahead of them and watched as tracers criss-crossed before the face of it. Pillars and gouts of dirt and clumps of grass were launched skyward as rockets exploded, grenades detonated and machineguns attempted to find their targets. As they approached the stonewall where most of the Marines were sheltering behind cover they were greeted by snaps and cracks- impacts from Centurion's shooting at them. The whole thing seemed deafening to the pilot.

"Keep your head down, sir," Tarkov explained. Adama saw all of the MSOB Marines double over into a low crouch and move toward the wall with increased vigor. He did the same, following in trace behind Tarkov. Just as they arrived at the wall Adama saw a young private shooting at the hill spin backward and collapse against the wall. She was clutching at her throat as spurts of blood spewed from her carotid artery. Adama was mesmerized by the sight- as horrified as he was he couldn't take his eyes off the girl's death throes. She struggled momentarily, grasping futilely at the wound before succumbing. Bright red liquid ran down the front of her ballistic vest, her eyes were wide open, mouth agape but her limbs were lifeless. Her face was ashen and then her leg began to twitch. Adama stared, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. The young woman- the girl couldn't have been more than nineteen years old.

"Hey!" he felt a hefty smack to his helmet and looked over to see Captain Shepard glaring at him. "This is what you wanted right?" He was angry. Adama slowly shook his head. "No? Then why the frak did you have to announce you were a Gods damn FAC? Now you're right in the middle of it so unfrak yourself!"

Adama swallowed heavily once more, then took a deep breath. He felt that same terrible taste re-enter his mouth and he smacked his lips attempting to expel it. A stream of heavy gunfire careened into the wall nearby and he dropped low against the cover it provided. His eyes traveled back to the young Private near him. Her skin seemed ever more pale now, her eyes were clouded over and flies were already beginning to swarm around the open bullet wound that had taken her life. He grimaced at the sight and immediately felt horrible for the girl's death. Then he thanked his stars that the round that had struck her had not found his throat instead. Immediately after he felt immensely guilty for the thought.

Corporal LeClair was using the scope on her rifle to locate and identify the exact positions of the Centurion's anti-armor assets. After several minutes of sweeping the area she found the only position that had a sizable weapon to be used against the Landrams. It was a recoilless rifle dug into a heavily entrenched position just below the crest of the hill, camouflaged in a clump of saplings.

"There, I've got it, sir," she reported to Captain Shepard. The officer looked in the same direction with his binoculars. "Just in that clump of trees," she exclaimed.

"Yeah, I see it," Shepard said aloud. "Well, Husker, do your thing," Shepard ordered.

Adama raised himself up from near the dead girl and crept over to Leclair. She identified the location of the recoilless rifle and he got onto his handset preparing to call for close air support.

"Any station, any station this is Husker, come in over," he said into the receiver as he peered at the target through a pair of binoculars. There was no response. "Any station, any station I say again this is Husker, over." The wireless was silent for a few moments and the young Lieutenant let out a sigh.

"Husker, Husker, this is Grimm- send it, over," the familiar voice of Grimm broke the silence and Adama felt his heart almost skip a beat knowing they had angels still in the sky.

"Grimm, be advised: requesting close air support mission at grid Lima Bravo 134 989er, how copy? Over," Husker said into the microphone. He ducked for a moment as several rounds snapped nearby. They were, in fact, nowhere near him, but he hadn't attained that sixth sense that many of the veteran Marines had- an instinctual intuition that told them if the impacts were close after they'd been shot at for so long.

"Roger, Husker. En-route to your location, five mics, over," Grimm responded. It would be a few moments before Grimm was properly positioned. Adama would need to figure out the pilot's IP, which was a navigational update that would have been assigned in their pre-flight brief in order to quicken the speed at which CAS could be utilized. Then he would need to identify the heading Grimm would be using, distance to the target, then target elevation, description and location. At that point the young pilot would explain the method in which the ground forces would mark the target, location of friendly forces and an egress route for Grimm to utilize.

"Can you mark the target with smoke?" Adama asked, looking over at Captain Shepard.

"Yes, what color?" the Captain asked with a nod.

"Purple," Adama replied.

"Roger," the Captain turned and ordered two of his Marines to launch smoke rounds from their grenade launchers. The first rounds fell slightly short of the target, but the next were dead on. Moments later Grimm was calling in.

Adama looked at the notes he'd jotted down and began to call in his brief. "Grimm this is Husker; be advised- Tango… 280 right… nine point zero... 1200... Entrenched gun position… LB 134 989er… purple smoke on the deck… east two-four-zero-zero… egress south to PIG- how copy?" Husker questioned. He noticed his heart rate was elevated and his breathing had increased. He wiped some sweat from his brow and studied the procedure he'd written down in his small notebook.

"Roger, solid copy," Grimm told him.

"T-O-T… one- zero, over."

"Roger, one-zero."

Shortly after Husker could hear the roar of the Vorams as the Viper began to make its approach along the heading he had assigned to it. At this point it was important for the FAC, Adama, to have positive control of the aircraft which meant that he had confirmed that it was on the proper attack heading. Grimm was on the proper heading and Husker said excitedly into his handset "Cleared hot!"

The Marines watched as the Viper came soaring in along its attack vector like a falcon seeking out its prey. It loosed every rocket, and unleashed a firestorm of bullets that sent a trail of dirt fountains into the sky as the 30mm rounds crashed into the planet. The rounds shredded many Centurions easily and the rockets crashed into the heavily fortified position where the dangerous recoilless rifle was located. The explosion rocked the area, casting sand bags, concrete, dirt and other debris high into the air in every direction. The over pressure from the blast rocked the Marines behind the stonewall, but many still called out a celebratory shout as Grimm's Viper banked east then egressed south along the route Adama had assigned. He would be reengaging Raiders still in the air in an attempt to achieve air superiority over the battle space.

The two Landrams wasted no time; after noticing the hated recoilless rifle was out of commission the crews pressed their light armored vehicles forward. Both tracked vehicles rolled onto the field ahead of the stone wall the Marine companies sheltered behind. One vehicle turned diagonally northwest and the other northeast and they rolled forward guns blazing. The Centurions, seeing this, now poured rounds into the advancing vehicles, but it hardly did any good. Their light armor was enough protection against the Centurion's smaller caliber munitions.

The Marine officers in charge saw their opportunity and ordered an advance. Adama was amazed to see the same bounding tactic used earlier by a small group of Marines now take place across the entire line. Thousands of men and women ran forward, braving incoming fire from the Centurions, while their comrades laid down support fire. It looked agonizing and exhausting, but each Marine never exposed themselves longer than five or six seconds. Those few that did unfortunately caught a bullet. Adama winced every time he saw a Marine go down.

In the maelstrom of gunfire he saw Fleet Corpsman dash forward, unfettered by concerns for their own wellbeing and only seeking to render aide to fallen comrades. This was not like the wars of old, when colonies fought one another and there was honor amongst enemies. The Centurions shot at everyone- Marine, civilian or medical personnel. Litter bearers dashed back toward the safety of the stone wall carrying wounded troops to safety and hopefully appropriate medical care. Mighty plumes of smoke and mud rocketed in the sky as mortars, presumably positioned far behind the entrenched hill, began to collide with the planet.

"All right Marines, let's move!" Captain Shepard ordered. He and his troops vaulted over the wall and began their push toward the hill's crest to dispel the Cylon defenders.

Adama made a move to follow but was yanked back down by Lcpl Tarkov. "Not us, sir." Adama stared wide-eyed at Tarkov for a moment who seemed upset about the idea of being left behind during this attack, but inwardly the pilot was very thankful he didn't have to charge into the storm of lead.

He watched with amazement as Shepard and his team adroitly maneuvered up the hill. Clusters of the MSOB troopers and other Marines would lay down heavy fire on Cylon positions and rush forward. When they got closer they began lobbing fragmentation grenades into the trench lines. Adama watched with approbation. At the same time the two Landrams were dealing with machinegun fire from the defensive position's flanks. It was SOP for Colonial ground forces to employ their belt fed weapons upon the flanks of any defensive line and as such the Cylons had been programmed with the same tactical concerns in mind. These machineguns were sweeping the field before the hill with heavy and accurate fire which felled many Marines. The Landrams aimed to put them out of commission, however. Their heavy 20mm cannons let out a rhythmic chatter and the rounds shredded the defensive positions where the machineguns were positioned.

Adama swept his optics back toward the fight in the center in time to see Shepard and his MSOB team, as well as a handful of regular Marines leap into the trench line and engage the Cylons in furious close combat. He reveled at the sight, immensely proud of the bravery of the men and women before him. He couldn't imagine the intensity of the fight taking place there.

Sometime later the hill was taken. Forces from the ridgeline waved down to reserve troops at the base of the hill. Troops were being positioned upon the ridge and beyond it in order to prepare for an enemy counterattack. Adama and Tarkov were contacted by Sergeant Costigan who informed them that it was safe to move up. When the pilot and young MSOB Marine entered the trench they saw the remnants of the fight that had occurred just minutes before. Shredded Cylon Centurions were scattered all over the entrenched position. Their silver chassis were muddied with dirt and their own fluids and riddled with bullet holes. There were Marine casualties too- already being policed up by troops who were taking them down the hill to be lined up with the rest of the dead. The wounded, too, were being taken down the hill to the casualty collection point where the battalion surgeon and a multitude of Fleet Corpsman were dealing with the day's butcher bill.

Just ahead Adama saw the MSOB team he'd accompanied planetside. They stood in a semi-circle gazing down into the center of a large fighting hole. As Tarkov and Adama reached the others Adama looked down to see what the others were staring at. He saw a familiar face. It was one of the MSOB team's Marines, a young man whose name Adama had not learned, but he had recognized him because they rode in the same Raptor to touch down on Aerilon. Everyone was silent. The Marine had a large stab wound in his abdomen, likely from the bayonet of a Centurion. Likewise a toaster lay beside him, peppered with gunfire.

"A highly-trained individual thrown at a heavily defended position like some dumb grunt," Captain Shepard cursed with disgust. He shook his head, glared at Adama and then walked off, slinging his carbine. "Get them moving, Gunny," he ordered.

Gunny Clay had hopped down into the hole and lowered the young Marine's eyelids. He said a small prayer and removed the man's dog tags. With help from Sgt. Costigan he exited the hole and looked to his Marines. "All right people, let's move out," he stated. The Marines fell back into the same familiar tactical column and began their methodical crawl northwest.

Adama looked back down the hill and surveyed the battlefield. The fight had lasted only a few minutes over an hour and yet there were hundreds of casualties. He realized then why it was so important for the Fleet to keep the Cylons off the surface of the colonies. On the ground the Cylons were even more dangerous. They didn't care about surviving, there was no sense of self preservation. Not a single Centurion had retreated from the hill that day- instead they fought to the very last and it cost the Marines dearly. And for what? A minor hill in the way to the more important objective: Gaoth.

More troops arriving from the second and final wave of Marines began to filter through. What scant reinforcements. Other troops were lumbering up the hillside towards the top, but the MSOB Marines continued on and a pair of Vipers zoomed by overhead. He knew Shepard would not wait for Colonel Barrett to arrive. He was far too worried about being commandeered for something else and the man seemed so single-minded in the pursuit of reaching his objective. Nothing was going to stop the Marines from getting there now- or so Adama assumed as he fell back into the column alongside his guardian, Lcpl Tarkov.


	11. Bloody Orbit

**Chapter Eleven: Bloody Orbit**

**ORBIT OVER AERILON**

**1142 Hrs**

**Primus Squadron**

"I've got a bead on him; he's three o'clock low… see him?" Captain Hilarion, call-sign Achilles questioned.

"Copy that I've got a tally-ho on the bandit, three o'clock low," Lieutenant 'Dice' Cortez responded immediately.

"He's breaking right. Well, Dice, what do you say we pull the old 'drag and bag'?" Achilles questioned. Currently Dice was acting as the Primus Squadron commander's wingman. The two were flying in a fighting wing formation, with Dice holding a tight position off Achilles' rear-left wing.

"Roger. On you," Dice agreed.

The two broke off their pursuit of the Cylon Raider and watched as it broke off its initial vector, gained a great degree of separation and then realigned itself so that it was headed directly for them both. At this point the two human pilots separated the distance between their two aircraft. Dice veered left and Achilles broke harder to the right. The Cylon Raider decided to give chase to Achilles, whose rapid deceleration in a high speed right turn presented a more lucrative target. The Raider maneuvered into position in a lead pursuit posture behind Achilles, who continued to break hard to the right.

Meanwhile Dice broke off his previous flight direction and rolled back toward the Raider and his wingman, Achilles. Dice, acting as the number two accelerated his Vorams to catch up to the Raider who had since become fixated on Achilles. The Primus Squadron commander was still in the midst of a hard right break. He continuously glanced behind him to ensure the Raider was trailing him and had taken the bait. Indeed it was and it had cutaway a chunk of separation between the Raider and Achilles' Viper. Nevertheless the Captain was forced to waggle his tail a bit as the Raider let loose with a stream of gunfire. The rounds passed errantly in the Viper's wake. The Raider still had not positioned its nose within the gun envelope and was struggling to achieve a good gunshot.

Dice rapidly advanced towards the two fighters and noticed just how deftly Achilles handled his fighter. The older man was taking quite a risk by allowing such a minimal degree of separation between his Viper and the Cylon's aircraft, yet in doing so he was allowing Dice to get in for a closer shot. The Raider had become fixated on Achilles and was intent on destroying him. In the meantime the trio of Cylons piloting the craft had not noticed Dice maneuver in behind them. The young pilot cut into the Raider's turn, assuming a similar pursuit posture that the Raider had taken up against Achilles. By the time the Cylon pilots had noticed their error Dice was already riddling the bandit full of 30mm rounds. Fuel and hydraulic fluid spewed out of the wounds that punctured the skin of the Raider. It spun helplessly out of control before colliding with an anti-ship missile fired from its own Basestar.

"Another bandit down!" Dice exclaimed excitedly.

"Nicely done, Dice," Captain Hilarion praised. "But it took you a little longer to line up your shot than I would have liked."

"Just testing your nerves, sir," Dice joked. Inwardly he realized just what a risk Achilles had taken. He was one of the best pilots aboard the Galactica—seconds perhaps only to Archie, the CAG. However, in the world of dog-fighting it was all about angles and timing. A second too long, a second too late, or assume the wrong angle and you were dead.

Despite the small victory the two had achieved the fight around them was going terribly. Like a mighty sea of chaos a massive battle had erupted in every direction all around them. They were two tiny birds in the midst of a grand hurricane. Massive bolts, tracers from the hulking Battlestars streaked across the black backdrop of space only to be passed in transit by anti-ship missiles leaving billows of smoke in their own wake. Explosions lit up their surroundings as Vipers destroyed Raiders and Raiders destroyed Vipers. Point defense turrets aboard the Battlestars and smaller destroyers pulsated and sent cascading streams of gunfire outward in huge arcs of fire attempting to provide defensive umbrellas for their armored skin against any would-be attackers. Debris floated listlessly in the weightlessness, some bits of wreckage still smoldering—especially chunks blasted from the Battlestars, Basestars and larger destroyers. Frigates sought advantage through speed, racing through the fight in small formations and concentrating well calculated salvos of guided rocket fire towards the Basestars.

By now ten of the hulking Cylon capital ships had floundered and had either been destroyed or floated lifelessly along. Yet in that same vein nearly as many Battlestars had succumbed to their wounds and had either exploded in a tragic array of light and debris or had become floating graveyards. Likewise many frigates, destroyers, and troop transports had been obliterated by the staunch defense put up by the Cylons. Another Battlestar's commander had shamefully retreated from the fight after his sub-light engines had been destroyed and he'd sustained significant damage to the starboard section of his ship.

The Galactica had fared better than some of the other Battlestars. Commander Nash, with great assistance from Colonel Faulk, had done an excellent job of training his gun crews in the past. Their heavy turrets fired shell after shell at the Basestar the Galactica was engaging. Ordnance teams were quick to resupply the gun batteries and the men that loaded the shells (affectionately referred to as 'Gun Rocks') were deftly ensuring each gun had an ample amount of extra ammunition. When a battery's gun-targeting system would go down the gun team would heave together and manually rotate the gun into position utilizing a seemingly archaic crank system. But they were effective. They put more rounds on target than their adversary did and they were accurate too. Each time a fissure or chink in the Basestar's armor would present itself they would bombard it with high explosive, dual purpose rounds. By exploiting the cracks in the Basestar's armor they were successful in destroying the first ship they engaged. A mighty cloud of smoke, flame, and fragments expanded violently outward in every direction. Vipers and Raiders alike scurried to avoid the wreckage that now acted more like a projectile. Some were luckier than others.

"Basestar destroyed, sir!" Oliveira reported with a distinct rise in her voice, excitement welling up inside her chest. A jubilant smile crossed her cherubic face, yet she remained steadfast and focused upon her console.

"Excellent work, Mr. Edgars," Commander Nash praised his weapons officer. "Helm, bring us about thirty two degrees starboard, all ahead full. I want to be engaging those Basestars in the next two minutes," Nash ordered seriously, referring to the two ships pummeling the Nemesis. "Miss Oliveira, inform Commander Green the Galactica is on its way to provide assistance."

"Yes, sir!"

"All Galactica squadrons, this is the CAG, form up on Primus squadron and follow heading 992 at 350 kph. We're to provide all possible assistance to the Nemesis, she's taken a heavy beating and needs additional fighter support," Major Archibald Gates explained over the wireless. He listened intently as heard the remaining pilots of the Galactica's air group roger up. "If you're Winchester, or you've gone bingo on fuel RV with the Galactica for refueling and rearming, understood?" Within a short amount of time the pilots had assembled their fighters and were pressing toward the engaged Battlestar Nemesis with all possible haste.

**BATTLESTAR GALACTICA**

**1248 Hrs**

**Hangar Deck**

Banzai looked around the deck with amazement in his eyes. Deckhands, snipes and knuckle draggers dashed about with tools and supplies to repair and refuel many of the Vipers coming back aboard. Banzai was one of three that were just being towed in from the recovery deck. Meanwhile ordnance teams rushed to and fro, dragging carts loaded with belts of 30mm ammunition for the Thraxon cannons, or the more volatile HD-70 Lightning Javelin missiles.

Perhaps a more troublesome part of the scene was the many medical personnel present. Several Viper pilots were being dragged down from Vipers that had been riddled with gunfire but had miraculously returned to the Galactica. Among them were two Vipers from the Nemesis who had likely docked with the Galactica out of desperation. Medical technicians were beginning to assess their patients and treat their wounds. Banzai thought about all of the men and women that hadn't been lucky enough to get back to the ship in one piece, or who were still floating in the midst of all the carnage, having ejected and survived the destruction of their aircraft. In addition to the Viper pilots there were the returning Raptors and their crews. They were being hauled off the elevators that had carried them down from the recovery pods. Many of them were damaged, but Marines were rushing aboard, the deckhands were towing the Raptors right back onto the elevators and the pilots were spooling up the engines. _Amazing_, Banzai thought. To him, the Marines and the pilots flying them were suicidal. He couldn't imagine surviving unarmed in the hellish mess outside the Galactica's bulkhead. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Other Marines and some Raptor crews were being carried out of the bullet-ridden transport craft. Blood was seeping from wounds caused by flak bursts or accurate shots from attacking Raiders. Young men and women howled from the pain their wounds caused them and Banzai shuddered from the sound. A shout from a nearby knuckle dragger brought him out of his momentary lapse. "Lieutenant! Here are the rounds you needed, you've got to load them yourself I'm needed over there!" the man reported. He was an avionics tech by trade and had to take a look at another Viper's nose cone. There was no reason this pilot couldn't load his own guns. "Lieutenant!"

"Uh yeah, yeah," Banzai responded, shaking his sweat soaked head. "No problem." Banzai immediately went to work, dragging out the links of heavy 30mm rounds and thrusting them into the loading mechanism of his Viper. While he did that he took note of the many scorch marks that had stained the exterior of his Viper—a disconcerting reminder of the many near misses he'd had.

"Ken!" he heard a woman's voice call out. He turned around to see Lieutenant Jaycie McGavin marching toward him. Her hair was matted down from sweat, much like his, but she seemed to have a look of absolute relief upon her face. "It's good to see someone from the Primus in one piece," she explained as she stopped just in front of him.

"Jaycie, what's the word?" Banzai asked, not sure of what else to say.

"Word is we're getting torn up really bad out there," she expressed with distress. "Is Billy—is Husker okay, do you know?" she asked, and then felt stupid for the question. Why would Banzai know, Adama was planetside with the ground forces.

"I'm not sure," Banzai admitted, noting the concern on McGavin's face.

"No, wrong of me to ask. I almost forgot he wasn't out there in a Viper this time," Jaycie admitted.

"I'm not sure which is worse," Banzai added.

"I'm not either," McGavin agreed, shaking her head. The worry still did not vanish from her face.

"How are things on Aerilon?" Banzai asked, not sure he wanted to know.

"Not good. We lost about half our Raptors on the inbound flight then a dozen or so more couldn't make the return trip because they sustained too much damage. At this point only a token force of Marines is going back in with a second wave. I don't think it's going to be enough," her voice trailed off as her thoughts traveled to Adama down on the surface… if he had made it to the surface. Gods she hoped he'd landed safe and sound.

"Lords…" Banzai murmured. It seemed the entire operation was unraveling already. Gods damned fleet and the Admiralty had committed them to a fight they couldn't win from the start and now they were all just being slaughtered like animals. "What do they have you doing now?" he inquired, hoping to take his mind off the monumental task that lay ahead of him: going back out.

"They're strapping the rockets to the rest of us to get out there and help you guys," Jaycie told him, referring to the rocket pods and the multi-tube missile batteries that were being mounted on the Raptors. Some of the other Raptors were having 30mm cannons mounted to hard points on the vehicle's exterior. "What about you?"

He stood momentarily, hanging in the moment speechless. He looked beyond Jaycie—through her, at the carnage that resulted from the fighting beyond the Galactica's bulkhead. Jaycie pressed him and he shook it off. "Uh, loading up these rounds and going back out," he stammered. He looked down at his hands to see that they were shaking, the belts of 30mm rounds as well.

Jaycie traced Banzai's own gaze downward and noticed the slight trembling in her fellow pilot's hands. She also saw as an embarrassed look crossed his face. "Here, let me help you," she offered, taking the rounds from Banzai who gazed vacantly at the Vipers he'd flown in with; they were already being towed back into the launch tubes.

"Th-thanks," he muttered. Together they loaded the rest of the Thraxon cannons' rounds. He let out a deep breath and cracked a reluctant grin. "Well, time to get back out there," he relayed sheepishly. Jaycie offered a smile in reply. He clamored back into his cockpit and was assisted by several deckhands. With his pressure collar locked and his helmet sealed he brought forward the canopy of his Viper. Moments later Jaycie watched the deckhands tow the fighter into the launch tube. The door sealed shortly after it had been fitted onto the magnetic catapult.

"Jaycie," she looked over to see Lt. Toriyama, her ECO, waiting. "Everything okay?" she questioned with concern.

"Yeah, everything is fine," the Raptor pilot lied.

"All Viper flights, all Viper flights, this is the CAG—break into flight package sierra-bravo and keep the skies clear along the Nemesis' dorsal axis. CIC reports the Nemesis has sustained severe damage and there are exposed frames along that entire region of the ship," Archie briefed the Galactica's air group as they sped toward the ailing Battlestar. _Along the entire dorsal axis of the ship—that can't be right, can it? _He thought to himself.

As the loosely formed flight of Vipers drew nearer, however, all pilots noticed just how badly the Nemesis had been wounded. A great gash seemed to run along the entire dorsal portion of the ship as if some mighty beast had dragged a blade across the Nemesis' back. Great plumes of smoke rose from still burning flames that lingered in portions of the ship where oxygen was still present and where fuel had added a nasty combustible to the equation. Small explosions left pockmarks all over the charred exterior of the Battlestar and many of its gun turrets were already destroyed.

"My Gods…" Dice mumbled soberly.

"All right Primus, tighten up let's bounce these toasters," Achilles immediately ordered, sensing his pilots apprehension. His aircraft rocketed forward and a moment later the others followed. The Primus squadron took a direct path straight toward the wing of Raiders that were attacking the limping Nemesis' open wound. The flight of Raiders, noticing the inbound Vipers, immediately broke away and scattered—Primus squadron broke formation to pursue. Standard operating procedure for Galactica's air group was never to fly without a wingman and thus every Raider was now being chased by two Vipers.

Seconds later Major Gates and the remaining three squadrons from the Galactica entered the fray. The Nemesis was weakening considerably, however, and the majority of its Vipers had been destroyed. Desperately, its remaining gun batteries continued their withering amount of fire upon the first Basestar that had assailed them. The other that was firing upon the Nemesis was still largely undamaged. Commander Green then ordered for the port side maneuvering thrusters to be fired and rolled the Nemesis over. This maneuver was done to protect its injured dorsal area as well as allow the somewhat fresher gun batteries upon the Nemesis' belly to engage the flagging Basestar.

"Mr. Edgars engage the damaged Basestar when we are within range," Commander Nash ordered. "Helm, position the Galactica between the Nemesis and those two Base ships, understood?"

"Sir!"

"Commander…" the XO began.

"Not another word, Colonel. Commander Green has been facing two Cylon Basestars for the better part of an hour now. If we don't get in there and soak up some of the damage then it is very likely we'll lose the Nemesis," the aging Commander declared resolutely. "I'm not going to allow that to happen."

"Yes, sir," Faulk nodded. In that moment the executive officer of the Galactica saw Commander Nash's return to form. It was a dangerous decision to make and it was one that placed Nash's people at risk in order to protect another ship, but it was a command decision and Faulk was happy to carry it out. "You heard the Commander!"

The crew within the CIC worked feverishly. Officers were dispatching damage control teams to necessary sections while CIC staff isolated system failures and attempted to work around issues within the targeting systems of some of their defense turrets which had taken damage. Likewise, Lieutenant Oliveira was busy gathering reports on Viper and Raptor losses and seeing to the coordination of any and all returning and departing flights. It was a lot to take in and she thanked the Lords of Kobol when a Petty Officer was free enough to assist her.

Just as the Galactica came into range and started pounding the damaged Basestar the Nemesis began to buckle.

"_What the hell is happening?"_

"_It's too much she can't take anymore!"_

"_All Vipers get clear, get clear of the Nemesis now!"_

"_We can't leave it."_

"_Move it! Go! Go! Full throttle, move!" _

"_I'm frakking hit—" _

"_Violent decompression along the port side hull… oh Lords I can see the… the bodies…"_

Dice watched as the port side recovery pod upon the Nemesis broke apart. The bridges that connected the pod to the Nemesis' superstructure crumpled and the pod ripped slowly away from the rest of the Nemesis' hull. His eyes were wide with amazement as he witnessed the event. It took only a few seconds, but it seemed like ages to him. He watched as dozens of rockets from the combined Cylon assault careened into the belly of the capital ship. He held his breath as great fissures opened up within the armor and then he was forced to look away as his vision was blinded by a bright light. The Nemesis had broken apart and then exploded. Desperate cries had flooded the wireless for only a moment before they were silenced.

"_The Nemesis!"_

"_It's gone! It's gone, they got the Nemesis!" _

"_May the Lords bless them…"_

"_All those… all those people."_

"_Poor souls."_

"_Frakking chrome jobs!"_

"_Listen up, people! This is the CAG, get your heads screwed on straight—we're still in the game!"_

Silence fell over the entirety of the CIC staff. Nash stared at the DRADIS console above the tactical control board in the center of the CIC. He seemed enthralled by the sight, now sans the Nemesis' signature. His eyes were wide and his aged face appeared greatly anguished.

"Commander, what are your orders?" Colonel Faulk asked. He narrowed his gaze on the Commander, who still stared blankly at the DRADIS screen. He saw as a mist began to appear within the Commander's eyes, and a slight quiver materialized upon his lips.

"Destruction of the Nemesis is confirmed," Lieutenant Oliveira relayed the information with great difficulty. She was breathing hard, more an attempt to hold back tears for all the lives lost aboard the Battlestar than anything else.

"Commander, what are your orders?" Faulk asked once again. Commander Nash did not respond. He continued to stare endlessly at the console as if he were willing the Nemesis to reappear or waiting to see that it was all just a glitch in their sensors. The XO thought he heard the Commander mumble _Gods_ but he could not be sure. Finally, he'd had enough.

"Mr. Edgars, pour everything we've got into that damaged Basestar. Tell our gunners to focus on the damaged areas near the ship's central portion," he commanded, referring to the extended cylinder that connected the two large discs that made up the Basestar. "As soon as we've blown that bastard apart I want-" He was cut off as Lieutenant Oliveira interrupted.

"Sir, urgent order from Admiral Hawkins…" she trailed off, unsure of whom it was she was reporting to. However, she glanced at Commander Nash and saw that he still seemed to be in shock.

"Well, what is it, Lieutenant?" Colonel Faulk demanded.

"Sir… the Admiral—the Admiral is ordering a retreat…" her voice was solemn and almost inaudible.

"That can't be right!" Faulk blurted, eyes widened. He was disgusted by the thought of it. "We still have people on Aerilon. What the frak…" he trailed off, careful not to go off on a tirade in front of the crew.

"Yes, sir. Several ships have already begun to jump away. It's a general retreat. Every airborne aircraft is ordered back to their respective Battlestars and we are to regroup in orbit around Canceron. I don't know why, sir," Oliveira explained almost helplessly. She felt horrible and she stifled a snivel.

"Put me through to Admiral Hawkins!" Faulk demanded furiously.

"Yes, sir!"

Moments later the sound of Hawkins's once confident voice came in over the secure wireless channel. Colonel Faulk picked up the handset alongside the tactical display table. "Admiral Hawkins this is Colonel Faulk," he addressed his superior.

"Colonel," the Admiral greeted genially enough with all things considered. "Where is Commander Nash?"

The question was expected, but Faulk wasn't altogether certain how he would answer. He looked over at Nash, who had now decided to take a seat upon one of the chairs offered to him by the CIC staff. He seemed wholly overwhelmed by the situation. He was breathing heavily, blinking repeatedly and flexing his grip on his cane. It seemed as if he'd just had a minor stroke. "He's indisposed, sir," Faulk said lamely.

"Very well then. What can I do for you, Colonel?" the Admiral questioned, although he probably already had an idea of why he was receiving the call. Faulk believed he couldn't be the only commander, or rather officer that was calling about the order given.

"Sir, why are we retreating? We have people still on the ground, thousands of them," he blurted.

"I'm well aware of that, Colonel. Tactical considerations require us to withdraw, however. We'll be back for our people as soon as we are capable," the Admiral told him. There was an edge to his voice, indicating to Faulk that he was on thin ice and aggravated over the call to begin with.

"What tactical considerations? If we leave them behind the Cylons will slaughter them!" Faulk cried over the wireless, his voice rising and his tone becoming dangerously insubordinate—something wholly out of character for him.

"Colonel!" the Admiral began to protest.

"My apologies, sir, but I don't understand what the frak is going on here," the Galactica's XO expressed. He adjusted himself, attempting to calm down.

"Colonel… Canceron is under attack," the Admiral admitted hesitantly.

"What?"

"It appears the Cylons were expecting us to attack Aerilon—once they knew we'd massed the majority of our forces in order to launch the operation they sent an attack force toward Canceron," the Admiral's mood now seemed dismal.

Canceron was the most populous colony in the Cyrannus star system. With a population of nearly seven billion the planet actually shared the same orbit as Hestia and Aerilon around the Helios Delta star. Because of its close proximity to Aerilon a large fleet had been positioned in orbit in order to safeguard the planet from Cylon attack. However, with the planned operation to retake Aerilon in mind the Admiralty was forced to draw a significant number of ships from the Canceron defensive fleet. It was thought that the Cylon ships defending Aerilon represented the largest concentration of Cylon forces and that it was unlikely any attack would occur on any of the remaining eleven colonies. Now that proved to be incorrect. Indeed, it was more along the lines of a massive tactical blunder. "What is the current status?" Faulk asked plainly.

"All reports indicate the defensive fleet over Canceron has been annihilated and the Cylons have committed to an orbital bombing campaign of several major population centers including Hades, Prommos, Mangala and possibly more," the Admiral explicated solemnly.

"I—I…" the XO had no words to describe the horrors he now imagined in his mind's eye.

"It is of the utmost importance we precede to Canceron with all possible haste. Once we have dealt with the Cylon threat there we can regroup, finish the fight here and get to our people. Until then they'll have to hold it together without support. It's regrettable, but there is no other option open at this time," Admiral Hawkins stated with complete sincerity. "Get your people back aboard and RV at the coordinates that you have been sent. Understood?"

"Understood, sir. Galactica, out," Faulk almost stumbled over his words. He hung up the handset and looked to Oliveira. "Lieutenant, get our people back aboard and any survivors from the Nemesis' squadrons too."

"What about SAR birds for any surviving pilots?" Lieutenant Oliveira questioned almost pleadingly.

Faulk wanted for nothing more than to rescue any downed pilots, but he was well aware there was absolutely no time for that now. Still, he looked over to his tactical officer and saw that desperate look gleaming within her innocent eyes and he felt like telling her no would break his heart. "Have any remaining Raptors do a cursory search if it's possible before returning to the Galactica. They have five minutes. I'm sorry but… there isn't time for more."

"All planes, all planes this is the CAG—be advised we've been ordered back to the Galactica. Shake off or finish whatever fighters you're engaged with and beat feet back home," Gates commanded over the wireless. A deep, sharp pain seemed to rumble up from the pit of his stomach and strike at his heart. _Retreat… retreat and abandon all those poor souls on the surface. Gods be with them_. He thought.

"What the frak? We're retreating? No! How the frak can they do this! We've still got our people down there fighting the frakking toasters on Aerilon. Adama is down there! What about SlyPig and Voodoo, or Grimm—we can't leave!" Dice bellowed over the wireless. "Gods damn cowards. Frakking Admirals, what the hell does he know anyways? We can win this one—we have to win this one!"

"Dice! Stow that immediately," Achilles shouted back over the comms.

"But, sir, we're just leaving them to die!"

"They're big boys and girls, Dice, they'll be okay," the Primus leader assured him, but he certainly didn't believe that to be true…

**BATTLESTAR GALACTICA**

**1433 Hrs**

**Commander's Quarters**

Colonel Faulk entered Nash's quarters after rapping on the door twice. Nash answered with a brusque 'Come in'. When the Galactica's XO entered the cabin he was surprised to see Commander Nash slouching upon one of the sofas within. His service blouse had been removed and he wore only his undershirt now. His cane was on the floor just beyond the cabin's entrance and Faulk noticed that two chairs from the table positioned before the sofas had been cast onto their side. Commander Charles Nash's face was a muddle of pain and despair and he appeared to be drunk. His eyes were gloomy and he cast them upon the floor at Faulk's feet. A half drunken bottle of bourbon sat upon the couch beside him and in his hand he held a sweating glass of the same liquid.

"Sir," Faulk muttered quizzically.

"I knew Commander Green for," Nash paused, sniveling for a moment. He looked up in the air as he tried to recall. "For almost twenty years. We served together back on the Albatross, but Gods that was ages ago." He drunkenly raised his empty hand up and pawed at his chest, scratching at an itch that didn't exist.

"He was a good man," Colonel Faulk offered.

"Oh yes—yes he was a good man," Nash agreed. "He was the kind of man that made you ashamed to be yourself. The better kind of man…" he trailed off for a moment and then took a gulp of his bourbon. "Like so many that went before him."

"He will be sorely missed, sir," the Colonel stated, although perhaps at this point he thought it might be better not to speak.

"Commander Green had the Nemesis for just about a year. Did you know that, Colonel?" Nash inquired.

"No, sir."

"Yes, just about a year and now—well now he's already gone. A Gods damn frakking shame too…" he trailed off once more. His face transformed into a weary state and his aged visage wrinkled ever-so-slightly, as if he were fighting back the urge to cry. Then he looked up at his XO and that same misty eyed look that had come over him in the CIC during the battle had returned. "Why am I still here, Colonel?"

Faulk opened his mouth for a second as if it to answer, but then he was unsure of what his response would be. He thought for a moment. "Because you're a good, Commander," he opined, hoping the answer would suffice.

Nash grunted and took another gulp of his bourbon, finishing the glass. He poured another while he spoke. "No, not that I'm afraid," he drank some of the alcohol he'd just poured before continuing. "I'm here because I just won't die." He felt it too, he'd seen so many of his peers come and go whether it was by death or by promotion, but for some reason he had remained. He languished here, winning great victories for the Colonies and losing many more. It had been a long road and a heavy, horrible burden and he wanted it to be over, but for some reason it would not end and for some reason he could not let himself leave willfully. Promotions never came and he never tendered any transfers—a silly notion of pride or sense of duty and still he remained. More died and others left, but Nash was present—a permanent fixture within the Galactica. He was as much a part of the ship as the sub-light engines or the FTL drive. "I've sent enough boys and girls to their deaths to man a company of Marines in Elysium."

"Sir, I hardly think that-" he didn't finish his sentence as Nash raised a hand to stop him.

"What is the status of the ship?" he asked suddenly, attempting to clear his eyes. He sat up straighter as well

"Uh, well, sir," the Colonel stuttered. "Damage was relatively light all things considered." He paused for a moment, unsure of whether he wanted to continue given the Commander's current state. "The Air Wing suffered considerably worse, however, we've lost half of our Viper compliment and about a third of our Raptors. We have some survivors from the Nemesis that should help augment our numbers, but uh, manpower is certainly going to be an issue."

Nash let out a lungful of air and collapsed back into his sofa. He said nothing and an awkward silence hung in the air as Faulk was unsure how to proceed. "Would you like a drink, Colonel?" he asked suddenly then.

Faulk thought for a moment and then nodded. The aged Commander nodded toward a clean glass on a table across the room. Colonel Faulk retrieved it and held it out for Commander Nash to fill. "Thank you, sir."

"Tell me something, Colonel… have you ever wished you could just give it all up?"

"Sir?"

"Command. You know, being an officer, running a ship, having the lives of everyone aboard this vessel in your hands?" The Commander canted his head and focused in on his XO, as if preparing himself for a fascinating response.

"I've never held a command billet, sir," the Colonel told him.

"Oh, nonsense. You're in command of the Big G," he exclaimed with a chuckle, drinking from his glass once again. "You're as much in charge of this bucket as I am, Colonel. You know that, the crew knows it. Hell, you'd probably do a better job than I have."

"I don't know about that, sir."

"You're an engineer by trade, yes?" Nash continued.

"Yes, sir."

"What attracted you to that field?" the older man pressed.

"I'm not sure, sir. I've always had a knack for mechanical things. Cars, motorcycles, boats, whatever—if it had an engine I could fix it. Plus I suppose my line scores when I tested at the academy were a factor," he smiled then at the memory. "I probably wouldn't have had a choice even if I wanted to do something else."

"You know most Battlestar commanders are former fighter pilots?" Nash told him, stifling a burp.

"Yes, sir, I am aware," Faulk nodded.

"Yet here you stand—a Colonel, and the executive officer of the Battlestar Galactica. That's a fine accomplishment," Nash praised. He spoke slowly, the effects of the alcohol evermore apparent.

"Thank you, sir," the XO acknowledged with another nod.

"Colonel…" Nash took in a deep breath and sighed. "Never sell yourself short." He looked up at the Colonel then with an almost desperate, saddened gleam in his eyes. "Never."

Again Faulk nodded.

"That'll be all, Colonel. Thank you for stopping by."


	12. Loyalty

**Chapter Twelve: Loyalty**

**AERILON**

**1227 Hrs.**

**Several Klicks SW of Gaoth**

The forest was surreal. It was as if the Cylon invasion had never occurred. There were birds tweeting, chirping and cawing away. Adama saw deer dart by in his peripherals and noticed each time a squirrel scampered up a nearby tree. The foliage was as lush as ever and the mighty coniferous trees still reached up high into the sky towards Helios delta, which beamed downward through the thick canopy creating pockets of sunlight within the cool forest. Not far off Adama could even hear the sound of a creek. It was deceptively peaceful. It reminded him of his childhood growing up on Caprica. He'd always loved the outdoors and ventured into the forests outside his home whenever it was possible. He felt like he had a connection with nature and each time he ventured into the woods he could feel the resonance of all the life that hummed within. He felt that way now despite the danger. It tugged at him; the entire feeling saddened him deeply as it was an ever greater reminder of the conflict that all of humanity was locked in. When he was a child he reenacted the old Colonial wars with friends, but today he fought the Cylons- not in some distant star system, not even in orbit, but on Colonial soil, on lands settled and tilled by humans and forcefully taken by the deadly spawn of humanities horrible genius.

Every few minutes they'd hear the booming echo of a heavy weapon far off in the distance. Each blast was an unsettling reminder that they were in the middle of a ground invasion. The Marine forces must have been getting closer and closer to Gaoth. 

Adama was crouched behind a moss covered rock, his eyes darting in every direction he heard a sound within the woods- a considerable task given the amount of life that existed within the place. But he found himself comfortable there. So many years of his youth spent playing outdoors, or exploring the monumental national forests outside Caprica city served him well now. His acute sense of hearing was a wonderful asset as was his pilot's eyes. Perfect vision could serve a man incredibly in a realm where dull browns and greens swirled together allowing any form, human or otherwise, to lose itself in the background. His hearing amplified the effectiveness of his sight- each creak, or ruffle of leaves gained his attention and warranted his scrutiny. There was something about the place that was disarming, however, as if he could set aside his weapon, lie down and take a nap. He felt the early stages of fatiguing setting which perplexed him. They had only been planetside for a few hours, but such was the taxing nature of their work. "What are we waiting for?" Adama quietly asked his ad hoc advisor. The question was as much to sate his curiosity as it was to keep him awake in the momentary lull. 

"We're setting security on the far side of a creek a few meters up. Once it's set we'll push across the danger area and continue our patrol," he explained helpfully. Tarkov knelt nearby, but like the predator he was had cleverly managed to disappear in the background of the forest. Adama could only imagine how exposed he would be when compared to these mighty professionals. 

Far side security, near side security, 360 security, cover, concealment, dispersion, security halts, going firm- Adama was becoming an ardent student of the necessary tactics, techniques and procedures required to be successful on the ground. He was a student of war and war extended below just the stars and the skies of all the Colonial planets. He knew this information was invaluable if not now than certainly sometime in his future. The layers of complexity surprised him and his respect for the infantry deepened. 

He looked over to see Tarkov off nodding to one of the Marines who was just ahead of them. The Marine glanced over at Adama. "We're good to move, sir." They rose to their feet and began their movement forward. Inwardly Adama chuckled at Tarkov's insistence to be respectful. He always addressed him as sir and never made a wisecrack at the pilot's expense. It felt strange for the young pilot, whom, by all intents and purposes was practically the lowest man on the totem poll amongst his colleagues on the Galactica. 

He was surprised to see the well hidden Marines covering their crossing at the creek. They had taken up position in some heavy brush nearby rocky outcroppings on either side of the body of water. Tarkov had explained that it was important to cover a crossing like the creek because it was considered a danger area, an area that put their patrol in the open and left it susceptible to attack. It made enough sense to Adama and he was thankful for the fact that such people were on his side. He couldn't imagine trying to face an enemy as well-trained and experienced as these men and women.

The water was cold and it might have been refreshing if it wasn't seeping through the pilot's boots. He cursed the crossing for that. There was nothing worse than trudging along with wet, soggy socks. He considered how nice it would be to just let himself fall forward into the crystal clear water and let it's refreshing temperature wash over his body, which by now was heavily perspiring. It would be just like being back on Picon at Helena Beach. The cool ocean waves crashing upon his form while the sun magically bathed his body in its warmth; 

He blinked repeatedly trying to gather himself as the security on both sides of the creek picked up and fell back in with the column. Two of the Marines jogged back up toward the front of the small formation in order to retake their original spots in the patrol order. Adama shook his head like a dog trying to dry itself. He needed to focus.

They continued onward and Adama did not relish the pace at which they moved. He considered himself to be a physically fit individual, yet these men and women moved at such an alarmingly fast speed through the trees and the brush that it left him huffing and puffing for oxygen. Besides their speed, they seemed to make the movement almost entirely silent. Several times people in the patrol glanced back with disdain as Adama had stepped upon a stick letting out a loud crackle, or had knocked down some rocks on an outcropping somewhere creating the sound of a small avalanche. He'd felt greatly embarrassed each time, but still he was amazed at the manner in which the MSOB troops conducted themselves. Every so often they would all stop in unison as if they'd communicated the maneuver telepathically, take a knee, face outward and just listen. Tarkov explained the tactic as 'going firm' and it was a moment for Captain Shepard to reorient himself and ensure they were progressing along the appropriate route. In addition, it gave the patrol an opportunity to listen to their surroundings and see if anything was amiss. Someone could easily track you on the move if they were quiet enough, Tarkov explained, especially while you're moving. But going firm allowed you to listen for any sounds from the forest that might seem out of place. Of course Adama had no clue what to listen for. 

He was alarmed by the sudden stop of the men ahead of him. They motioned with their hands for him to get down and they quickly found a place from which they would defend themselves. What could it be? Their haste suggested Cylons up ahead. Adama did as instructed and took cover, no further than an arms distance away from Tarkov. He watched intently as he saw their point man, Cpl Jaeger, make his way over to Captain Shepard. Jaeger was a gnarly looking fellow, likely the veteran of a dozen or more contacts with the enemy by the looks of him. They seemed to be discussing something for a minute and then Shepard signaled for the patrol to continue. 

They pushed on and after they had moved about a hundred meters Adama saw what Jaeger must have been explaining to the Captain. On the left hand side of the patrol there was a small clearing and in that clearing there was an assortment of civilians, mostly women and children but Adama saw at least two men among them. The civilians looked ragged and half-starved. He was reminded of many of the homeless people he'd seen in Caprica City when he was growing up. Some were wounded and had been patched up with rudimentary medical techniques and makeshift supplies. They all looked at the patrol vacantly, as if what they were seeing was not real. Adama wondered how long they'd been hiding in the forest. One of them approached Captain Shepard as the patrol halted and took up security. The man was balding and by the looks of things he was probably more heavyset before his exodus from Gaoth and near starvation in the forests. His clothes hung upon him as if he were a scarecrow Adama was just within earshot of the conversation. 

"Yes, we're Colonial Marines," he heard Captain Shepard say after being greeted. "What can you tell me about Cylon presence in the area?" Shepard was all business, he never wasted time on frivolities. He was single-minded and his mind was always set on the mission and its success. That was something Adama had learned quickly. He remembered reading a snippet about ground warfare during his time in The Basic School, where all officers, regardless of job, were taught the basics of ground warfare. In that particular lesson the publication stated that mission accomplishment was the primary concern for all leaders and that troop welfare was second. It also stated that aggression and violence of action were the most important facets of a successful offense and that an attack should not cease until a unit has become combat ineffective- which basically amounted to eighty percent casualties or more. Adama hadn't believed such a thing could be true when he'd read it. Eighty percent seemed like a staggering number, yet as he watched Shepard he could tell the man was the complete embodiment of all that training and all those standard operating procedures. Shepard would not stop attacking until he had his eighty percent casualties, Adama knew. He wondered then if he'd go beyond- if he'd push and push until his unit was destroyed and no one was left alive to follow his orders. The thought disturbed him. 

"We haven't seen much in the past couple of days. But we've been out here for weeks dodging their patrols. They've killed or captured everyone they find," the man told the Marine Captain. The contrast between the two was startling. Where Shepard was rigid, thriving and muscular the man's posture was poor, he was filthy and the confidence and spark for life was gone from his eyes. 

"Where do they take the captured?" Shepard asked. He was jotting down the man's answers in a field notebook, his ball cap pulled down low upon his head.

"Some they take back to Gaoth and others they take in that direction," the man pointed northwest, almost the exact direction the patrol had been heading.

"Any idea why?" Shepard continued.

"Not a clue," the man told him. "Are you here to rescue us?" 

"No," Shepard responded coolly. 

"What are you doing here then?" the man asked curiously. The civilians, some of whom were presumably his family, watched on quietly. 

"Don't concern yourself with why I am here . Thank you for the information," Shepard nodded and then turned to Cpl Jaeger and signaled for the patrol to continue. The man must not have wanted this, however, and he reached out anxiously and grabbed a hold of the Captain's arm. In an instant Captain Shepard had shrugged off the grip and snatched the man up by his throat, slamming him into a nearby tree. The civilians nearby shuddered and gasped at the sight. 

"Please, sir, we need help. Something- food, water, anything. Please, we have children," the man begged.

"You people are not my concern," Shepard expressed icily, still gripping the man by his throat. 

"How can you just leave us here to die?" the man questioned pathetically. 

"Head back towards Gaoth. Marine forces are retaking the city. They can help you," Shepard told him, releasing the grip he had on the man. He glanced over to see as the team's Corpsman, Specialist Straka, was handing out several bandages and pressure dressings to some of the women that lingered near two injured children. "Straka! Secure that gear," he ordered.

"But, sir, these kids are hurt and their dressings should be changed or…" 

"Or nothing. We have no idea how long we're going to be operating out here. We're completely cut off from support, we need all the supplies we can get. These people can get aid when they reach Gaoth. Get those dressings back- that's an order," Shepard commanded. He looked back at the man, but said nothing.

"Yes, sir," Straka responded with a grimace. He glanced over at the two women who looked incredibly disheartened. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I need all of that back." The woman looked at him beseechingly. Then she glanced at her injured children. Then, reluctantly, she handed the dressings back to the Corpsman. 

"Let's move," Shepard announced. He motioned to Cpl Jaeger who began a steady rate in the direction they'd been headed. Adama marched by with the rest of the MSOB team. He stared at the cluster of civilians, his heart swelling at the sight of the beleaguered people. He felt terrible for them. He felt as though they'd mishandled these shocked war refugees. He wondered if they would survive. They were the Colonial Fleet, protectors of mankind or so the commercials had said and so they had told themselves. These people reached out to their protectors for aide and they were rebuffed, almost violently so. But the situation was a delicate one. Shepard did have a point; they were far from support and there was potential to be attacked and cut off by the Cylons, which would undoubtedly lead to casualties and thus the necessity for the medical supplies. He wondered if he would have the mettle to make such a decision. He supposed that was the burden of command. _War sure is hell_. 

**AERILON**

**1240 Hrs.**

**Skies Over Gaoth**

"I've got him nice and lined up," SlyPig muttered into his helmet's microphone. "Piece of cake." His Viper swooped low, hugging the rolling hills on the outskirts of Gaoth. He zipped over a battle that raged on the ground below. Centurions occupied small buildings on the very edge of the larger city beyond. The Marines were advancing through what looked to be a rail yard. Large grain silos rose prominently from the surrounding area as well. Trains probably transported grain and wheat there for storage before being taken to the spaceport and transported off world. Aerilon was the breadbasket of the Colonies, after all. 

"You're cleared hot, SlyPig," the voice of a forward air controller advised.

"Roger, cleared hot!" SlyPig swooped ever-lower, his eyes dead set on the target to his direct front. It was a piece of Cylon armor and it had been tearing up the troops advancing with the 7th Infantry Battalion. The FAC with the battalion had called for assistance and Lt. Cunningham had answered the call. He leveled his wings and saw a clear picture of the Cylon armor. He had it dead to rights. He flexed his hands on his flight stick, wriggling his fingers. A moment later he depressed the trigger. He felt the Viper shudder as he loosed the rounds and watched as the tracers struck the ground just before the armor- the impacts ran forward- then struck their mark causing the small tank to explode. He dipped slightly while accelerating, gaining airspeed then banked left leaving a smoking, charred husk in his wake. 

"SlyPig, skies look clear but I've lost comm with Grimm can you raise him?" Voodoo's voice broke in over Cunningham's headset. As terrible as the battle they were a part of was it seemed to put his relationship with Voodoo to rights, or so he felt as the two communicated fluidly and without impediment during the entirety of the operation. 

"Standby. Grimm, Grimm this is SlyPig, do you read me over?" Cunningham waited for several moments and tried once more, but there was no reply. "Negative, Voodoo, no contact with Grimm."

"Frak! I've got two Raiders on me!" Voodoo called out suddenly. 

Cunningham immediately began to search the surrounding skies attempting to seek Voodoo out. _Where is she damn it? Where the frak are you Voodoo? _The idea of being unable to help her was enough for him to lose his composure and shout it out into the wireless, but it would serve little purpose except to exhibit how emotional he could be. It would not endear him to Voodoo either, as she was a woman who flew with little emotion. _There!_ He saw in the far off distance a Viper engaged with two Raiders in the ever-familiar aerial dance. He banked hard west and rocketed off towards the trio.

Voodoo had committed herself to a vertical rolling scissors maneuver. Her Viper climbed ever higher as she and one of the Raiders criss-crossed one another's flight path. Each time she crossed the Raider's path she performed a reversal, attempting to gain the advantage and get behind the Cylon. Each time the reversal was performed by both aircraft they were forced to roll. Voodoo's plane shook violently and she could feel the pressure against her entire being as she continued to climb. She fought the Gs and struggled to push down on the Viper MK II's thrust pedal. Beams of light from the star Helios Delta flooded the interior of her cockpit, practically blinding her. "C'mon, c'mon…" she mumbled, still climbing. She glanced at her altimeter and saw that the two had spiraled upwards beyond 30,000 feet and still they climbed. 

"Keep pushing! He's still on you!" Cuningham warned, seeing Voodoo performing the vertical maneuver. He applauded her for her resilience, noting the steep climb she was engaged while simultaneously rolling over and over to get an advantage on the Cylon. That could not be easy on her physiology and Cunningham doubted he would be able to pull the maneuver off himself. 

She squinted her eyes and shook her head, fighting the urge to pass out. Her eyesight dimmed and she could feel the blood being forced from her brain. She groaned as she increased the throttle even more. She saw a few streaks of tracers pass her Viper errantly- the Raider was trying for a lucky shot. The blue sky began to grow darker and the clouds finally gave way to outer space as her and her adversary broke free of Aerilon's atmosphere. She blasted forward and then immediately activated her RCS thrusters. She spun her Viper about one hundred and eighty degrees, loosing a heavy burst of gunfire as she did. The rounds found their mark and the Raider exploded. She immediately let Aerilon's gravity drag her back down into the atmosphere and she committed herself to a steep dive.

"Cunningham, you've got that last toaster on your tail?" she calmly asked.

"That's affirmative, Voodoo," SlyPig replied into the wireless. He was breathing heavy now as he was forced into evasive maneuvers to dodge the Raider which fired furiously at him. 

"Bring him to me," she calmly half-whispered.

"Roger," her fellow pilot confirmed the order and broke right, heading northwest toward Voodoo's steep descent. 

"Maintain that heading and accelerate to one-five-zero," Voodoo counseled. Again she felt the Gs pushing against her body, but now it was a wholly different feeling. She felt as if she was riding a meteor back to the planet and it exhilarated her. _Got to time this just right_…

Cunningham did as she advised, slowly increasing his acceleration until his airspeed was at one hundred and fifty. He glanced at his altimeter and noted that he was approximately fifteen hundred feet off the deck. His Viper zoomed by just south of the outskirts of Gaoth. A quick check behind him and he saw the Raider was still giving chase, struggling to maintain the same airspeed. The Raider may have been capable of faster turning in atmospheric flight, but it was still no match for three Voram engines of the Viper Mk II. 

"I've got a tally on the bandit- comin' in hot!" Voodoo cried out. She leveled off her dive and was screaming in at a forty five degree angle toward SlyPig and his pursuer.

_A head on approach_? Cunningham thought. _She's crazy_! In school they had always been taught to avoid head on approaches because it gave the enemy an opportunity to shoot at you. Beyond that, however, pilots committed a great deal of mistakes in such a scenario. There was an unwillingness to break off or they simply didn't break off soon enough as they attempted to get that final round off to bag a kill.

Voodoo accelerated and rocketed towards the target. Her Viper slammed past Cunningham's bird and he felt as if the canopy would shatter as the sonic boom followed her pass. Voodoo's skill was on display. She lined up with enough offset so that she was not obstructing the Raiders flight path and she applied some yaw to get her nose pointed in the direction of the enemy as the two rapidly closed on one another. 

As it came within guns range she opened fire. The Raider attempted a snap roll, but a half dozen rounds caught the aircraft and it immediately began tumbling. Now, with an erratic flight path, it barreled toward Voodoo's Viper.

"Frak!" she howled, breaking hard. But she was not fast enough. The Raider crashed into the side of her plane as she performed the maneuver. The two aircraft collided sending both off in opposite directions. The warning siren was sounding inside her cockpit as the Viper assumed a flat spin. Chunks of the airframe were being ripped a part from the centrifugal force which pressed Voodoo back into her seat.

"Eject, Voodoo, eject!" SlyPig shouted his eyes wide with terror from the collision. He banked toward her spinning aircraft feeling helpless and impotent for his inability to help her. 

"I… can't…" her hand struggled to reach the ejection handle just below her seat, but the force from the spin was too much to handle. She grit her teeth, struggling even more and willing herself with all her might. It was no use. She let out a heavy moan as the force of the gravity exhausted her. She took a deep breath and tried once more- it felt as though she was trying to lift a house. The force had her throttled back in her seat. Her eyes fixated on her altimeter and watched aghast as the needle spun ever downward. Her attitude indicator suggested she wasn't completely level. With her teeth clenched hard she tried once more. She pushed and pushed, reaching deep within herself to find the necessary strength to reach the handle… but to no avail. Sweat gushed down her face and her lungs were working overtime. Still the alarm chimed within the cockpit, still her descent continued with no recovery or escape in sight. She let out a heavy breath of air and closed her eyes. Then, before her eyes a delightful two story house materialized. There was a lush yard landscaped with vibrant green grass and accented by an array of brightly colored flowers. There were orchids, her favorite, in excess and she could feel a cool breeze across her face. It was Virgon. Beautiful, lovely Virgon. A man played in the yard with a small boy, joy emblazoned upon their faces. They were unfettered by the misery of this war. All that mattered was that they were alive and with each other. They noticed her presence then and happy eyes were set upon her. They smiled at her, welcomed her and waved for her to come and join them. She was thrilled, her heart was warmed and a smile crept upon her face. She had never been so happy. She was ready then. It was okay to die…

"Haley!" Cunningham shouted. He watched as the uncontrollable Viper slammed into the roof of the thick forest southwest of Gaoth. He saw no canopy, no ejection seat or parachute and he felt as if his heart would leap from his chest. 

He directed his Viper towards the crash, but a desperate voice over the radio forced him to reconsider. "Anyone out there! Frak!" It was the voice of the FAC from earlier. "They're slaughtering us down here. I need some frakking air support! Now! Where the hell are you guys?" The voice was pleading and desperate and the sound of heavy gunfire in the background accented the call. 

Cunningham cursed from within his cockpit. For a moment he considered not answering the call. What difference would his plane make in the fight on the ground? He was no one's savior; that was obvious by his inability to get to his teammates in time to save their lives. First Spike and now… now the most important person in the fleet… Haley Shaw. He closed his eyes and his Viper coasted along in the afternoon sky. He breathed in and then out, in and then out again. Again he heard the desperate pleas from the FAC on the ground below. He nodded as if he'd reassured himself. He couldn't leave those men on the ground to die. He may have failed his fellow pilots, but he would not fail those troops on the ground. "Be advised, this is SlyPig- I'm on my way! Hang on!" he blared, attempting to regain his composure.

"Oh thank the Gods you're still with us," the voice responded with elation, "Standby for nine line."

"Roger, standing by…" Cunningham gave one last look back towards the thick canopy where Lt. Haley "Voodoo" Shaw had gone down and said a silent prayer. _Gods I hope you're still alive. _Then he accelerated toward the grunts that needed him on the ground. 

**AERILON**

**1257 Hrs.**

**Several Klicks SW of Gaoth**

Adama's eyes were torn skyward as the sound of sputtering Voram turbo-thrusters blazed by overhead. He saw a Viper spinning wildly out of control slam through a half dozens branches with smoke following in its wake. The Viper continued its descent until it was out of sight, but the sound of it crashing was unmistakable and Adama knew it couldn't be far off. 

The patrol of Marines halted and most of the personnel, as disciplined as they were, watched as the Viper struggled past over the top of them, smashing branches and tree tops as it wildly crashed toward Aerilon. There was a moment of silence as all seemed to hang in suspense until they heard the sound of the aircraft smashing into the ground not far off. Still the men and women of the MSOB team stared blankly into the depth of the thick woods. It was a quiet moment, a morbid moment. All of them felt the same; they had just witnessed someone die. 

"We're moving out. Let's go," Captain Shepard broke the silence. He spoke plainly, his voice void of any reverence. It was just another casualty in this long war filled with casualties. The pilot was just a nameless face to him. It may as well have been an unmanned drone crashing by overhead. 

The patrol continued on for a moment, but was halted when Adama spoke up. "Wait a minute," he insisted. 

"What is it?" Shepard turned on the young pilot, half snarling. It was evident the man was already becoming annoyed by Adama's presence. 

"We've got to go see if that pilot is okay!" Adama practically shouted. He had felt helpless from the start of the entire operation. He was a pilot, first and foremost and he was torn away from the one place he felt most comfortable. He wasn't doing what he was trained to do, what he was meant to do and the entirety of it had made him feel helpless and useless. Now he'd seen a fellow pilot's Viper go down and he was ordered to move along without stopping. It was as if he was just floating along a raging river being carried violently downstream unable to defend himself from the many dangers that existed within the water and unable to stop and even help someone similarly situated. He couldn't stand it any longer. 

"Absolutely out of the question," Shepard responded without hesitation. His lip curled and his gaze hardened. He resented the young pilot. He was brash, immature and naïve. He was still soft; a rookie, an untested young pup who couldn't fathom the realities of war. He certainly didn't understand the complexity or the depth of horror that existed on the ground. How could he? He was a frakking pilot. He soared high above the fields where the grunts bloodied themselves daily against a mechanical monster as vicious as any of the beasts in the old tales. 

"You've got to be kidding me! It can't be more than a few hundred meters away," Adama insisted. He would not budge, he would not yield. His father had taught him that much. Some things were worth putting your foot down and fighting for. The life of that pilot was one of them. 

"A few hundred meters out of our way, Lieutenant. Now sling your Gods damned weapon and march. That's an order," Shepard seethed. His eyes were alight with anger and remained fixated upon Adama. It was obvious he was not accustomed to people questioning his orders. 

"I can't just leave a fellow pilot behind like that. It's not how we operate," Adama objected staunchly. 

"How you operate is entirely irrelevant to the task at hand, Lieutenant. What don't you understand about orders?" Shepard growled, he could sense his patience evaporating. His Marines would never question him to such an extent. This was outright disobedience. This pilot had some nerve! Why did Commander Nash saddle him with an inexperienced whelp incapable of following simple orders? 

"I understand that sometimes you have to break the rules," Adama reasoned. He felt himself getting angry. He glanced frantically off in the direction of the crash and wondered how far off it was. It had to be close. They heard it for Gods' sake. 

"Not in my outfit. Now fall in, Lieutenant," Captain Shepard ordered again. 

Adama looked to Shepard then back in the direction of the crash. Suddenly he broke off in a dead sprint toward the crash. Brambles scathed his face and arms as he smashed through them, desperate to get to the downed Viper and also terrified of what Captain Shepard might do.

The MSOB Marine shouted at the pilot, but Adama paid him no mind. He drew his sidearm and aimed in on the fleeing man. He steadied himself, attaining a proper sight picture and proper sight alignment. He did his best to calm himself, then he eased the safety catch off. His finger slowly crept toward the trigger. He focused on the front sight of his weapon; Adama's fleeing figure was blurry in the background. It would be a perfect shot- just as he trained- and he never missed. But just before he pulled the trigger a hand grasped his arm and yanked the barrel toward the dirt. 

"Sir!" Gunny Clay called out. His stern face was filled with disapproval. His eyes seem to communicate to the Captain, chastising him for even considering firing upon the pilot. 

"Damn it," Shepard roared. He looked over at Lance Corporal Tarkov. "Go make sure that frakking idiot doesn't get his head blown off! RV with us at rally point one. You have thirty minutes. If we're not there head for the objective." 

"Sir!" Tarkov nodded and like a gazelle on the Great Tauren plains he sprinted off after Lieutenant Adama.

"The rest of you move out," Shepard ordered, regaining his sense of composure. 

Adama followed the path of destruction the Viper had left within the forest. It was easy enough, simply follow in the direction of the splintered, destroyed trees until he found the wreckage. He darted across the open ground and was surprisingly light-footed despite all the gear he wore. It was something of an encumbrance since he'd donned it; he was far more used to the survival gear worn by pilots and the combat load of an infantryman was heavy and unwieldy. Yet he moved along with haste, dodging branches that reached out to claw at his face and draw blood as they had when he'd broken from the MSOB patrol. His feet carried him over gnarled roots that could trip up or injure the unwary, but Adama was committed now and he felt that familiar adrenaline that rushed into his veins when he was in the cockpit of his Viper. Then he saw it.

The Mk II had created its own clearing in the forest ahead. It had slammed through several trees, smashed into the ground and was dragged across it by the force of its impact. As he approached it he noticed the crushed right wing, shattered tail fin, cracked canopy and fractured airframe, but there didn't appear to be any damage from hostile fire. He wasted no time approaching the aircraft, silently thanking whatever powers that be that the fighter was not on fire. 

He saw the pilot inside slumped forward within the cockpit. He moved quickly over to the craft and clamored up the wing to the cockpit and attempted to open it. He yanked and tugged, but no joy. The pilot within was not moving and he wondered if the person was dead. He certainly hoped not as this whole escapade of his would be for naught. Then he wondered why he'd done it to begin with. He was alone in the middle of the forest with no land navigation equipment. He had no idea where the Marines were headed, or how to find his way back to the 19th Battalion. _Stupid_. He thought. Then he saw the pilot move. It was slight, almost imperceptibly so. His eyes widened with joy and he banged on the canopy, but the figure did not move. Frantically he looked around for something he could use to get inside the cockpit. He looked down at his thigh-rig and drew the pistol holstered there, then shook his head and placed it back from whence it had been drawn. _Yeah good idea Bill, shoot the canopy and kill the pilot you're here to save_. He chastised himself. 

With great consternation he glanced around the area. He leapt off the wing and scrambled about the crash site until he found something to his liking. He hefted a large rock which may have more appropriately described as a small boulder and cradled it like a baby. Then he stumbled back toward the cockpit, nearly tripping over the wing. With considerable force he lifted the boulder up over his head and smashed it into the fiberglass canopy. It cracked enough so that a portion of the rock broke through. Adama yanked with all his might and drew the boulder from the canopy and repeated the procedure once more. The hole widened, but after Adama ripped the boulder free once again (now heavily panting from his exertion) he reconsidered his tactic. _If I shatter this canopy then I'm just going to drop this huge thing on top of that poor bastard_. He let out a sigh and heaved the boulder off to the side. He took a moment to consider his options while he regained his breath. His eyes wandered all over his surroundings. 

A thought entered his mind. He looked inside the cockpit and saw that the canopy release bolt was still in tact. _If I can release the bolt maybe I can slide the canopy forward_. He considered the plan and with little other options he decided it was a good one. He jumped off the damaged wing once again and grabbed up his trusty boulder. _This is going to be a bit tougher_. Now, because he would be striking the side of the canopy rather than the top it would require him to hurl the boulder sideways, almost like he were swinging a bat. This would be tougher for him, given the weight of the object, but he tried. With considerable difficulty he hefted the rock towards its mark. It struck precisely where he intended then fell toward the ground. Adama narrowly averted the thing crushing his foot and in his hasty escape from the boulder's wrath he lost his footing and tumbled off the wing and into the dirt. He took a moment to collect himself. He was still reeling more from the embarrassment than from any personal injury despite the fact that no one had seen the debacle. He climbed back onto the wing and saw that a sizable hole had been created in the glass. He reached through the hole- it was just barely large enough to get his hand through- then unhinged the canopy release bolt. He yanked his hand back through the hole then struggled to slide the canopy forward. Just as he did this the pilot began to regain consciousness. _Of course. It would have been much easier for me if you were awake a second or two earlier_. 

Even through the faceplate of the pilot's helmet, which was cracked and obscured by a smattering of blood, he recognized who it was. "Voodoo!" he called out.

"What?" she managed to murmur. She was dazed. "Husker?" She was incredibly confused by the sight of her fellow pilot. "I'm… I'm still alive?" She seemed almost saddened by the fact. 

"Can you move?" Adama asked hurriedly. Now that he had the canopy open he didn't want to delay any longer than necessary, especially if they were going to catch up to the Marines. Hopefully they'd still be headed northwest. 

"I… I think so…" she muttered, but she didn't move. She sat in place within the cockpit as if she'd never said a word to begin with. 

"Shaw? You okay?" Adama questioned worriedly. 

"Huh?" she glanced at him and he noticed a large gash across the right side of her forehead. Blood was gushing from the wound and Adama figured that was probably what was causing her mental fogginess. 

"I'm going to get you out of there- hang on," Adama assured her. He bent into the cockpit and attempted to cradle her body. Voodoo wasn't especially heavy and Adama was a powerful man, but it was an awkward lifting position. Nevertheless he began lifting with all his might. He groaned under the labor but she began to budge. As soon as she did she let out a horrifying, bloodcurdling scream. Adama immediately let her go. "What is it?" 

"Ah," she was panting and squinting her eyes. "My leg… my frakking leg…" she bleated through clenched teeth. 

"Maybe it's broken," Adama suggested. Voodoo moaned loudly from the pain it caused her. "Well we don't have any choice. I have to get you out of here," he explained to her. She was incoherent though, too lost in her own pain and still dazed from her head trauma. Again he reached back into the cockpit and once more he carefully positioned himself to lift her. He would be fast in order to prevent as much pain as possible. He took a deep breath and counted to three then with all his might and speed he lifted. He grunted from the exertion and again she cried out with a piercing screech, but he got her clear of the cockpit. With great care he set her down upon the ground. She was still groaning from the pain. 

Adama rifled through her survival gear until he located the pouch which contained the ampoules of morpha. He took one and placed it in the auto-injector then injected Lt. Shaw with the painkilling medication. "That should help," he stated with a slight grin.

Voodoo's excruciating caws of pain collapsed into dull groans. Her pupils dilated and became glassy upon the surface. Her breathing slowed as well.

Adama began to assess his casualty. He began with her head and worked his way down in typical fashion as he had been taught time and time again. He was thorough and precise, checking each section of her body and ensuring nothing was amiss. She suffered from a few lacerations upon her face (aside from the sizable gash). When he lightly pressed upon her side she let out a cry despite the morpha. It was probably a cracked rib, which would cause her a great deal of discomfort. Finally he made his way to her legs. The right leg was obviously broken, but luckily it was not a compound fracture. He hastily assembled a field expedient splint and applied it to the affected appendage. 

He looked to his surroundings knowing he was going to have to evacuate her. She was evidently not ambulatory- not now- not while she was doped up on morpha and the break in her leg fresh and un-repaired. That created a problem, however. He would have to fireman carry her which would be difficult in the rough terrain. That in and of itself would cause her intense pain as well, given the probable crack to her ribs. He attempted to clear his mind and think clearly. _Stay calm and think, damn it_. 

The quiet atmosphere of the forest was shattered by a devastating staccato of gunfire that erupted from the opposite side of the downed Viper. A dozen rounds careened into the aircraft, ricocheting off and deafening Adama from the close proximity of the impacts. The canopy of the Viper disappeared, obliterated by the incoming rounds. Adama dove to the ground, instinctively covering Voodoo from the shower of glass that rained down upon them. _Cylons found us_! Voodoo seemed oblivious to the events happening around her. 

Adama rose to a crouch while the rounds continued to slam into the downed Viper. Thoughts raced through his head as he desperately tried to figure out what to do. He slowly broached the top of the destroyed cockpit and errantly fired in the direction of those assailing him. His rounds were wildly inaccurate. For fear of being struck by a shot from the Centurions he had simply exposed himself for a moment and fired off an erratic volley in their general direction. Pointless. He dropped back behind the Viper as the cavalcade of gunfire increased in intensity. He looked down at Voodoo who lay writhing and groaning lowly to herself. She hardly seemed concerned with the appearance of the Cylons. 

Worry began to well up inside Adama's chest as his situation became evermore apparent and a solution was not presenting itself. He had to hurry and make a decision, he knew that. He was smart enough- had been trained well enough- to know that the Centurions would flank his position soon and he and Voodoo would be dead. But what to do? Panic presented itself within him ever-so-slightly, but before it had an opportunity to take hold of him it was shattered by gunfire he knew did not originate from the Centurions. 

Lance Corporal Tarkov adeptly maneuvered toward he and Voodoo. He advanced with his weapon held firmly in his shoulder, looking over his sights. He let out off two accurate bursts, which Adama assumed felled their targets, then continued toward the two pilots. "Sir, we've got to get out of here!" Tarkov announced the obvious. 

"I gathered that, thanks," Adama replied restively. 

Tarkov looked at the wounded pilot, Voodoo and then back to Adama. All the while the remaining Centurions continued to pound away at their cover. "You pick her up and get her out of here and I'll cover you," Tarkov stated resolutely. His tone was calm and confident which reassured Adama. He was the professional after all. 

"She's got a cracked rib and a broken leg. It's going to be painful for her," Adama explained to the Marine, who decided to fire a few rounds back at their attackers.

"Either that or we can stay here and die," Tarkov offered with little emotion. 

Adama knew he was right- they had to move, but carrying Voodoo would cause her a lot of pain, not to mention the rough terrain. "Okay, give me some time cause I won't be moving fast," Adama alerted Tarkov. He looked down at Voodoo. "Haley, I've got to move you so we can get you to safety," he half-shouted over the din of the impacting rounds. She was oblivious to his words. "It's going to be painful." Still she showed no signs of being aware of what he was saying. 

"Hurry it up, sir!" the Lance Corporal rushed the process, still firing at the Cylons. He tried to gauge where they were and a general number of how many there were by the amount of incoming fire. It was difficult to do, however. He assumed based on the sheer volume that there were at least six Centurions. 

Adama slung his rifle, bent down and lifted Voodoo's arms up. He tugged her to a half-standing position and threw her over his shoulder in the classic fireman's carry position. Despite her earlier morpha-induced euphoria the pain from this movement was excruciating. She called out despairingly, the shrill tone of her cry was enough to perforate Adama's eardrums. Or so he'd thought.

"Go!" Tarkov shouted. Adama watched as the Marine drew a grenade from a pouch on his flak jacket. He thumbed off the safety clip and pulled the pin, but held the spoon in place. "Go!" Tarkov ordered again. Adama shook off the trance, turned in the direction he'd come from and ran.

He sprinted forward as fast as he could, but his senses told him that he moved sluggishly at best. That made sense, Voodoo was weighing him down. Her dead weight was enough to drive him into exhaustion within the first moments of their escape. She was shouting the entire way, the pain of her injuries too much even for the morpha he had administered. Finally she passed out from the sheer pain she was experiencing and Adama felt bad for being relieved by it. 

He felt his lungs burning as they labored to provide oxygen to his muscles which endured the heavy task of maneuvering through thick brush and uneven ground to safety. All the while the gunfire behind him never ceased; all that changed was the location of the respective weapons being fired. He could tell Tarkov was engaging the Centurions in a running battle as he withdrew. Then, after some time, the gunshots were evidently coming from a direction much further away. Lance Corporal Tarkov was leading the pursuing Centurions away from Adama. He only hoped that all of them would take the bait. However, he felt great worry for the young Marine. Was he taking on more than he could handle?

Adama ran for what felt like near an hour, before the entire ordeal became too much for him to handle. The gunfire between Tarkov and his pursuers had long gone silent and Adama worried that he and Voodoo were now on their own. He found a small alcove within a rocky knoll shaded by a trio of large pine trees. He gently laid Voodoo down and then collapsed into a panting, sweaty, heap beside her. He drew his canteen and drank from it sparingly; there was no telling how long he'd need the supply to last. He felt as if his heart would rip from his chest and explode. His legs were powerless, then his muscles began to twitch uncontrollably. He fought back the urge to throw up and simply continued panting. Then his senses returned. He realized that he may still have Centurions chasing him. He hefted his rifle from its slung position and rolled out from behind the rocky alcove. He put the weapon in his shoulder, still breathing heavily, he looked around his surroundings. The forest had returned to its serene state. There didn't seem to be anything chasing them.

To his horror, however, he heard the sound of mechanical parts that were all too familiar. He glanced over to see a single Centurion had rounded the opposite side of the small alcove. The single red eye present in the Centurions visor stopped its mechanical bouncing from left to right as it focused on Adama. The mechanical monster resembled something more like a knight in an old Caprican adventure of fantasy film than some monstrous robot bent on mankind's destruction.. It displayed no emotion, of course, making it all the more menacing. It drew a bead on Adama and prepared to fire. The pilot whirled around presenting his own weapon. Adama was faster and pulled the trigger, but nothing! No shots fired! What happened? A misfire? No- no the safety was still on! Adama flicked off the safety but the Cylon was already firing. The chatter of the Centurion's submachine gun was terrifying so close. Adama closed his eyes and shuddered, expecting the rounds to take his life, but before the Centurion had fired it had been interrupted. A lethally accurate group of rounds had impacted along its chest. The force was enough to ruin the machine's aim and thus save Adama. The Cylon collapsed near Voodoo, still unconscious. 

Relieved, but confused, Adama frantically looked around to see where the rounds had originated. From a cluster of bushes not far away Lance Corporal Tarkov became apparent. He was sweating and breathing heavily (though nowhere as heavy as Adama). He approached the downed Cylon and put another burst into the robot. Then he offered the young pilot a hand and hoisted him to his feet. "Are you okay, sir?" he asked genially. It was an easy return to his formal and respectful nature from earlier. 

"Uh… yeah, yeah I'm okay," Adama expressed, wiping his brow. His eyes locked on the Cylon, now crumpled and void of any life or power. _That thing nearly had me_, he thought blinking. "Thank you, Lance Corporal." He turned to Tarkov who was reloading his weapon with a fresh magazine. 

"Just doing my job, sir," he affirmed with a small grin. He looked over at Voodoo. "Is she?" 

"She's okay. Just passed out from the pain," Adama told the Marine. He wanted to ask what next, but immediately realized how foolish that would be. He was the senior officer, he would decide the course of action. He felt totally inadequate for such a task, however. He was completely out of his element and inexperienced to boot. "I suppose we should rendezvous with the rest of your team."

"Yes, sir. Captain Shepard told me to RV with them at rally point one. Should only be a few klicks from her," Tarkov confirmed. This made Adama feel better as he had felt like he had said the right thing. He felt validated. 

Tarkov insisted on carrying Voodoo, but Adama would not allow it. He had made the excuse that she was a fellow pilot and it was his responsibility to tender aide, which made little or no sense at all. The truth of the matter was that he wanted Tarkov's considerable talent and situational awareness to be one hundred percent without distraction on the way to rally point one. The decision also made more sense considering the fact that he had no clue where he was going. So William Adama hefted Lieutenant Shaw upon his back once more and set out with Lcpl Tarkov toward the rally point where hopefully the rest of the MSOB team would be waiting. 


End file.
